Chapter Thirteen
Vivian
I don’t understand what’s going on. “It’s raining, Jonah.”
“No shit.” His body is tense, and he’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him down.
“You can’t shut the window?” I ask, needing clarification.
He’s driving, so we can’t angry-text. And can I just say, fighting by text is my new favorite thing.
“No. What part of that is hard for you to understand?”
“The part where you can’t fix it,” I mumble.
Jonah fixes things. That’s what he does.
“I can fix it. But not until we stop.”
He glances at me, and our eyes catch for a second. It’s long enough for me to see the worry in his eyes. I don’t like it. I’m the one who worries.
Sitting in the front seat, where I can see everything, is already stressful. There’s no reason for it. This is nothing like what happened with Uncle Henri. Jonah doesn’t take unnecessary risks. Jonah wouldn’t drive a hundred and fifty miles an hour just to see if he could.
But every bump. Every car that gets too close—I trust Jonah. He’s a good driver. Careful. I just need to be reminded sometimes.
The window makes everything worse.
He relaxes his hands. “It’s fine, Vivian. This van is over ten years old. It’s bound to have some issues.”
The rain plinking on the window is relaxing. Or it would be relaxing if I wasn’t worried we were going to die.
“It isn’t raining that hard. And I’m the only one getting wet.” He’s still trying to explain things. What he doesn’t get is that he can’t fix everything. He can’t fix my fucked-up brain.
“I don’t like driving with the window down.” And for a second, I consider explaining why. How the sound—the vibrations—bother me. Is that part of my anxiety around driving? Or something else? I open my mouth, but Jonah beats me to it.
“Jesus. Your hair will be fine, princess.”
Why did I even consider confiding in him? Whatever. It’s still a little warm in the van, but I put my hood over my head. Let him think it’s to protect my hair. Which is ridiculous. I check the app on my phone. Two and a half hours until we stop for the night.
Slumping in my chair, I pull the ends of my drawstring. I don’t usually hide, but I need a moment without people. Without cars racing around us. Without Jonah. I scroll through my phone, watching random videos, and then text my bestie.
If I accidentally murder Jonah, will you help me bury the body?
Frankie
Accidentally?
“How close are we?” Jonah sounds irritated, as if I’m somehow neglecting my duties by texting with my friends. Not that I chose this particular duty in the first place.
I check the map app on my phone. “About a hundred and twenty miles. So, two hours or so.”
Jonah lets out a frustrated sound. His left hand is on the wheel, and his right hand is pressing into his forehead.
“Jonah? What’s wrong?”
With both hands on the wheel, he straightens his arms and then relaxes them. But his knuckles are white. “We’re not going to make it that far.”
“What?” But then I hear it. The rain is coming down even harder. Sure, he’s getting wet, but I know he’s driven in worse weather than this.
