Well then.
I school my features from sour back to neutral before slipping inside.
Ellis is the firm Iwantedto use for my business, but I couldn’t afford their exorbitant rates and had to settle for a different consultant with a worse reputation.
If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be using a consultant at all. But my primary investor is “highly recommending it.”
“Nice,” I say after both our doors close, sounding as salty as I feel. “I’ve heard of Ellis. Very fancy logo.”
Cajolingly, Will says, “Revenant has a nice logo.”
“Don’t say it just to make me feel better.”
“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
I snort. “Will Grant, Idon’tknow you at all. Never did, even back then. You were a brick wall of pouting.”
“I didn’t pout.”
“All you did was pout. You were Season One Conrad Fisher. You were Olivia Rodrigo’s entireSouralbum, on repeat. You were Ken when Barbie took away his mojo dojo casa house. You were—”
“At least four other references I won’t understand?” he interrupts.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “All the other surface-level girls would get them.”
Will either doesn’t remember making that comment or he’s making a show of confusion by knitting his brows together. I can’t tell, because, as established, we never really got to know each other. Something seems to click, though, and his befuddlement shifts to embarrassment.
I pop open the console between us and shuffle around until my hands grip the first aid kit wedged between spare sunglasses, tissues, gum. Tampons, a sewing kit, hair clips—
“You don’t happen to have four fives I could trade you for a twenty?”
“I do, actually—” My head snaps up. We’re nose to nose.
He’s smiling now—not just an almost-smile, arealsmile, both his dimples completely fleshed out and bare to me—his blue eyes starker in the shadows of the car. My breath stutters on an inhale, swirling around in my lungs.
I have felt this feeling before, with him near,causing it,and it was a huge mistake.Backpedal, immediately.
“I was just kidding, Josie.” There’s a playfulness to his tone I’mpretty sure might be a rarity for Will. As if he’s trying it on for size but isn’t quite used to it.
“You’re capable of that?”
“Only once my pouting phase ended.”
I point at my supplies. “I like to be prepared.”
He nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “Mm-hmm.”
I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or not—or if, perhaps, he’s thinking about how I’m easily predictable with my hyper-organized car full of trend-right hand sanitizer and mini peanut butter protein bars—so I say nothing and pop open the kit, pulling out a couple of alcohol wipes, Neosporin, Band-Aids. When I pass the items from my hands to his, our skin grazesagain,and it feels like a memory I don’t want.
I pull off the shoulder of the boulevard, braiding my car back into the traffic headed downtown. My phone is still connected to Bluetooth, and Gracie Abrams starts to play. I turn down the volume and flick my eyes over to Will beside me, who has the visor mirror open and is fixing up the scrape on his cheek. He’s careful and thorough, cleaning the wound, covering it.
“You don’t live here, do you?” I ask.
He doesn’t break focus from the mirror. “You know I lived here first, don’t you?”
“I wasn’tclaimingAustin.” Vocally.
“Good, because it’s a claim you would’ve lost.”
