She nods.
And I don't know why that bugs me. It shouldn't bug me. Silence is preferable to conversation, and conversation is how I ended up hating her less than I should — how I ended up forgetting exactly who Blaire is to me and what she did and what I'm supposed to be recovering from. She can sit there with her arms folded and her cute fucking braids and her sexy fucking flats and her stupid fucking silence and that is fine. That is ideal, actually.
I pull out of the garage.
She still hasn't said anything.
It bugs me.
Once we leave the garage, I pull into the closest gas station to fill up.
"Do you want anything from inside?" I ask.
She doesn't answer, just opens her door and walks past me into the store. I follow behind, not looking at her ass, and work my way through the aisles grabbing drinks, chips, candy, a couple of things I can't justify nutritionally but intend to eat, anyway. Mostly so I can eat my feelings on the drive without having to explain it.
I pile everything on the counter.
"God, what do you feed yourself?" She asks from beside me.
I look at her haul. Kombucha, a granola bar, a fruit cup, and a water.
"What do you feedyourself?"
"Things that aren't entirely composed of dye and sugar."
I give her a deadpan look. "Didn't you polish off an entire tiramisu this week single handedly?"
She looks at the pile. Looks at me. Reaches out and picks up a bag of gummy bears without a word and adds it to her side.
I look at her.
She looks at the cashier. "Together, please."
I pull out my card before she can, and she makes a sound of protest that I ignore completely.
We walk back out into the morning, and she tears the gummy bears open before we've reached the car.
"Don't say anything," she says.
"I wasn't going to."
She leans against the car while I fill the tank, eating her gummy bears and looking out at the street. I find myself looking at her braids and thinking about the convertible and the forty-five minute drive, and before I've made a conscious decision about anything, I've clicked the automatic feed on the gas pump and walked over to her.
I pull the rubber band from the end of one plait.
Her eyes go wide. "What are you doing?" She slaps my hand.
I slap hers back. "Stop moving."
"Youstop — give that back—"
"Hold still."
"Bennet—"
I unravel the second plait before she can intercept me, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders in soft waves. I run my hands through it and I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing at this point.
But I was right. I hate that I was right. It's going to be beautiful in the wind with the top down, and I have made a catastrophic error in judgment coming over here.
