I slow as I approach a busy intersection, the light ahead yellow. But as cautious as I’m being, the guy in the lane next to me isn’t—he speeds ahead, and before he’s gotten much past our front end, he slides in front of me and promptly hits the brakes.
So I hit mine, too.
And—like millions of moms and dads and generally careful drivers before me—I stick out my right arm like it’s a steel bar, keeping safe the person in the seat next to me.
Jess Greene.
It’s not a crash, but it might as well be one—the feeling of anypart of her against any part of me a jolting impact. When her body naturally reels back into her seat, the hair that had fallen over my forearm brushes back across it in soft, electrifying trails. One of us sucks in a breath. I think it might’ve beenme.
We turn to look at each other, both of us frozen until I slowly lower my arm. I’m pretty sure she felt it, too. That jolt betweenus.
“You okay?” I say, low and quiet.
She blinks across the console at me, her blue eyes wide. Something so much softer than a storm.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I’d probably keep looking at her but for Salem speaking up from the seat behind me.
“Goodness!” she says brightly, tapping at Tegan’s iPad. “Let’s hope we don’t have any more moments like that between here and Tennessee!”
Jess drops her eyes, folds her hands primly in her lap.
I turn to face the windshield. To focus on the red light in front of me.
Yes, I’m thinking, that knot in my stomach something different now.Let’s hope.
* * *
Two hours in and I was wrong about Tegan, who is not in fact always up for talking, because pretty much as soon as we hit a speed above sixty-five, she falls asleep and stays asleep. And it’s not a light nap, either: I can hear her softly snoring. In the rearview, I see her head drooping to the side, her mouth slightly open. I used to travel for games with guys who slept this way. Lulled by movement even if they weren’t tired. Even if they’d already slept for hours.
And probably Tegan’s had a few sleepless nights lately, given all this.
Other than the forgettable sounds of some adult contemporary satellite radio station I have playing on a pretty low volume, it isbrutallysilent in this car. I think Jess and Salem are in some kind of no-speaking standoff, and I can’t think of anything to say because I’m still too fixated on how my forearm feels.
Her hair was really soft. It reminded me of—
“My daughter is exactly the same way, you know,” says Salem, finally blinking first and breaking the silence, and also my train of thought. “She can’t stay awake in a car ride to save her life.”
Jess doesn’t respond, but I don’t think Salem expected her to. She expectsmeto. Even if Jess isn’t talking to her, she wants Jess to hear her talking about casual stuff, light stuff.
I clear my throat. “How’s she doing?”
“Oh, you know. Fifteen and she’s figured out the entire world. She thinks her father and I are the most embarrassing people to ever exist. You know how they are at that age.”
That, too, is for Jess’s benefit—for the benefit of someone who has recently raised, isstillraising a teenager. In my periphery, I see her adjust her hands, which she’s been keeping in her lap. It’s her only reaction, and I’m not sure if it even counts. She might be the most contained person I’ve ever met in my life.
“Sure,” I say, relying on the knowledge I’ve gained from working with Salem these last few months, the steady way you build a certain kind of insight into your co-workers’ lives. “Is she still dancing?”
“Oh yes. Practice five nights a week in the summers. It’s running Patrick ragged, but better him than me.”
She laughs lightly, but I’m pretty sure Patrick being run ragged with dance class pickups isn’t a light topic between them. I’ve overheard more than one tense phone call between them about Salem’s work hours lately.
I think she might stop there, but instead she takes a risk.
“My daughter—her name is Penelope—is a very talented contemporary dancer.”
This time, she’s very clearly directing it at Jess—an explanation, an inclusion.
