She had to actually take a step back.
He had to shake himself. Snap that connection almost visibly, in a way that seemed resentful. “Yeah, and you’ll be relieved to know it’s going to stay that way, no matter how many long, long, long hours this takes,” he said, so firmly and annoyingly that she went to be irritated with him in return. To show that she, too, didn’t care to have him know her.
Then she realized.
He had effectively said yes.
And that was agoodthing. It was, it was, it was. She would make sure of it, whatever happened. She wouldn’t let any of this get to her—not even the sight of him grabbing her bags, without her saying another thing. Or the way he strapped them in, with an excruciating amount of care. Or what happened when she went to get into his truck, and struggled with the giant step up as predicted, and wobbled.
And felt his hand take hers.
Almost instinctively, like someone sliding down a cliff and going for a handhold. In fact, that was how she returned the gesture, too. She felt herself sinking back to the ground, and clasped that sturdy thing so tight.
Too tight, really.
It meant a million details immediately pressed themselves upon her:
How strangely soft his palm was, how rough his fingertips. And then finally, finally, there was the warmth. That startling warmth—as if he’d been a stone effigy before now, looming large and forbidding in the back of her mind.
And suddenly she had to reckon with him being something more.
Something sweet, maybe. Something so sweet she snatched her hand away the second she was stable enough to get into the passenger seat herself. Though of course he didn’t take it as a reaction to sudden softness. He looked put out, startled, then rolled his eyes.Okay, princess, that look said.Sorry my cheese-grater hands hurt your delicate sensibilities.
And she couldn’t even say,No, that’s not it.
No, I don’t just only like soft men.
Because him believing that was cover for what she had really felt:
The urge to hold on tighter, and try her best not to let go.
Six
She expected him to start the car the second he’d performed a series of what looked like rituals to some unnamed road god. He adjusted his mirrors, even though none needed adjusting. Then he adjusted his seat, despite the fact that it was just as unnecessary. And finally he secured his seat belt not once, but twice. As if the first time hadn’t been satisfactory.
Right, now off we go, she thought at him.
But even after all that he still didn’t start the engine.
He gripped the steering wheel, and stared grimly out of the window. Like he was contemplating all the ways this was a terrible, terrible idea, and every way he could get out of it. And even after he did finally set off, he didn’t seem comfortable.
Every time she moved, he glanced at her.
Then seemed to glance at whatever he thought she was moving toward. The satchel at her feet, the dashboard, the radio. Like he suspected she was a sort of invasive species, about to spread her terrible spores all over his safe and well-kept space. Soon, the strangely familiar cedar smell in the cab would be replaced by her softperfume. Her black hairs would be everywhere. And her sticky fingerprints?
All over.
It made her want to eat one of the chocolate bars in her bag just to live up to his low expectations. Smear it on the windows, see if he shuddered. He had shuddered in college, after all. When she’d licked her finger, and accidentally touched the table in front of him and left a little something.
She’d caught him after class—when she’d had to turn back to get the book she had left—frantically rubbing at that mark with his thumb. As if it felt so irritating to him that he hadn’t even been able to wait to grab a cloth or use a corner of his shirt. Just skin straight to it, over and over until it was gone.
She had turned away before he finished the job.
Most likely by burning his own fucking thumb off.
And now here he was, doing the same sorts of things again. Only this time there was no escape. She just had to sit through three hours of the initial stretch of this journey, from the outskirts of Bangor toward the first stop in Salem, New Hampshire, the tension forever building and building, every inch of her always waiting for him to actually say something she could fight, some objection to his behavior she could hate, before he finally broke.
Like the way he broke a second later.
