“How come I’m the only one ever wearing one of these?” I ask.
“My life is not so precious,” he says, tightening the strap to his content.
He smiles when he finishes and pats my head before mounting the bike. But I don’t immediately follow.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Do what?” he asks.
“Smile just to make me feel better.”
“I know,” he says, still smiling. “It’s just a habit.”
“You do that a lot?” I ask. “Lie to protect your friends?”
This time, the smile fades, but he doesn’t answer.
Not that I need him to. I already know.
Elliot doesn’t care about himself. If it were him who killed Grey that night, I doubt he would have gone through half the trouble of covering it up. Knowing him, he would have just sat down in the grass and waited patiently for the inquisition to come collect him.
I mount the bike in silence and distract myself from looking at the ground by counting my heartbeats. But thank goodness, the ride is short.
He parks on the rooftop as always, and I let him help me this time as I dismount.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he unbuckles my helmet and wedges it between the handlebars. “For everything. You were really good back there.”
He shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“Nah, princess, you just make it easy.”
Easy? I don’t think anyone has ever described being with me as easy.
Elliot is grinning at me, staring actually. But I don’t mind as he reaches out to brush my braids over my shoulder and fiddle with the end of a single strand.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” he asks, propping himself up against the bike.
“Oh. Um…my dad. He was a big cards guy.”
“Was?”
“Yeah. He…uh…he died.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
Elliot frowns, and I find myself praying he doesn’t ask the next question.
For some reason, every time you tell someone you have a dead dad, the next words out of their mouth are either “I’m sorry” or “What happened?” and Elliot only ever apologizes when he’s in the wrong, so I’d bet my money on?—
“What happened?” he asks, interrupting my quiet spiral.
I sigh, and his back stiffens.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says. “Not if you don’t want to.”
That’s the problem, I do want to. Ever since that night at Treehorn’s, I’ve wanted to.
He deserves to know what kind of creature he’s dealing with.
