Long practice had seen to that; now it was second nature.
Whereas she, he could tell, was in full color. Underneath the air of sadness, the signs of neglect, the fear of something he was afraid of her sharing, was a rainbow, a supernova. Something that would shame him and his pitiful, paltry life if he ever broke free.
But man, did he want to do it anyway, she read, so engrossed she almost didn’t see him coming back. She had to scramble to swipe the book away and stuff her iPad back into her bag, then pretend to be fiddling with one of the air vents.
Though that came with its own issues.
He saw what she was doing, and sighed heavily. “Right. So number one: no touching anything in my truck, at any time, for any reason whatsoever,” he said.
Then just like that, they were back to whatever passed for normal, for them.
“You think I’m gonna agree with that.”
“Well, I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”
“Because the car could blow up and I wouldn’t be allowed to get out.”
She knew the look he shot her without even turning his way. Eyelids lowered over his eyes, fluttering almost closed. A tightening around his lips. Breath let out in a thin stream between. Exasperation, plain and simple. “That is a completely ridiculous hypothetical extreme and you know it.”
“All right, so I’ll make it less extreme. I can’t leave to use the bathroom.”
“You’re allowed to touch the goddamn door handle, Emmett.”
“So I’ll just die in a crash because I couldn’t wear a seat belt. Unless maybeyou’replanning on putting my seat belt on me. At the start of every journey, and after every bathroom break or food stop, always brushing your hand against my arm or catching your watch on a button of mine or accidentally touching—” she started, and was relieved when he cut her off.
She hadn’t meant to go that far in her taunting.
It felt like she was sweating by the time he stepped in.
But if she was, he was doing it harder. “Stop it, stop it, stop, stop, stop. Enough, all right, I get it. You can touch things in here. Just don’t change any settings, or move things around. Or press buttons on my radio. I have it all the way I want, I have the stations programmed. Leave it alone,” he said, in a way that suggested he didn’t meanitat all.
He meantme.
Sadly for him, however, she couldn’t do that while trapped in a truck together.
“But I don’t think I can take hours of podcasts about being sensible.”
“I don’t even know what a podcastis. Is that like a TokTik?”
She put her face in her hands. “Oh god, help me.”
“He’s too busy helping me deal with you probably wanting to playlove songsall the way to these godforsaken events. Ones about people swooning and smooching and riding giant motorcycles through windows in order to get to some beautiful woman,” he grumbled, and she went to grumble back.
Then realized how oddly specific that was.
Specific, and very familiar.
“Like in the Meat Loaf video?” she asked.
Much to his very obvious discomfort.
“No. What. No.”
“Because it sounded like—”
“I don’t care what it sounded like, that’s not what I meant. I have no idea who Meat Loaf even is. Probably because I’m too young and too disdainful of power ballads. Now I’m gonna put on my favorite station, and you’re gonna deal with it.”
He didn’t wait for her to protest. He got in there quick, and snapped the radio on. And it was a snap, too. His truck was so ancient the radio had swizzly knobs that you clicked toward on and off and everything in between.
