Page 25

“Pregnant? Shit.” Ethan blows his cheeks out, pushing his ball cap back. He goes quiet, which usually takes at least eight or nine beers to accomplish. My stomach dips a little as I watch him, a muscle in his jawline twitching. “Listen, man,” he says. “I gotta tell you something—”

“You raped her, didn’t you?” I erupt, not giving him a chance to finish.

“What? No! What the fuck are you talking about?” Ethan says as he slams on the brakes. We’re in the middle of nowhere, so far out that he can come to a full stop right in the road and nobody’s going to care. It’s just us and corn stubble, something I maybe should have thought about before I accused a guy with a hair-trigger temper of sexual assault.

“You think I raped Ava?” Ethan asks me. I don’t like the way he says it, putting emphasis on her name like if I’d slipped someone else’s in there it might be a possibility. “Who would fucking bother?”

“Maybe the same person who roofied her and left her ass-up in a cornfield?” I ask.

“And who could that have been?” Ethan says, tapping his chin. “Maybe it was the guy who found her? Huh? Maybe it was the guy who—”

“Fuck off, man,” I say. “I’m not a rapist.”

“Me either, fuckwad,” Ethan says. “I’ve got Hailey, why would I need to do that?”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that works, asshole,” I shoot back. “And if that’s your defense, why do you need nudes of all these other chicks, when you’ve got Hailey’s?”

“Let’s see your phone, dick,” he comes back at me. “It ain’t all Bible verses and kitten videos, is it? You know it’s not, and I know exactly what’s on your photo—”

His phone goes off, Hailey’s name at the top of the screen. He grabs it. “Yeah?”

I can’t make out her voice, but she’s clearly panicked, talking fast, at a high pitch.

“Be right there,” Ethan says, cutting her off abruptly and slamming the gas.

“Shit!” I yell. “What the hell, man?”

“Hailey needs something,” he says, his mouth in a tight line.

“Like her birth control refilled or whoooooa—”

The last word comes out of me like a rubber band stretched to its max as we make a tight U-turn, only snapping back when we come out on the other side, all four wheels returned to the ground.

“Shit! Dude, seriously,” I say, when Ethan’s reaction to that close of a call is to accelerate. “If you need to let me out—”

I don’t finish my sentence as we fly through a four-way stop and get a solid three feet of air under us as we clear a train track. The suspension on his truck crunches when we hit the ground, and my phone flies from my hand. Ethan slows only when we turn onto Hailey’s road, pulling into her driveway and killing the engine. I glance into the rearview mirror and see the sign for Restoration Acres glowing red from our taillights. Ethan’s out of the truck and at the passenger door before I’ve got my seat belt undone. When I try to open it, he slams the door shut.

“No, man, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Hailey wouldn’t want you back there.”

“What, like at her house?” I ask, rolling down the window. “I know she’s poor, dude; they use donated refrigerators for a fence.”

“That and . . . you just shouldn’t be here right now.”

There’s a yelp from behind the trees, and the sound of raised voices drifts down the driveway. A shadow crosses Ethan’s face, and I reach for the handle, determined.

“Is Hailey okay?”

The door is slammed shut again, and Ethan reaches through the open window, gripping my shoulder.

“She’s fine. It’s her grandpa. Look, it sucks that you were with me when she called, but Hailey needs me right now.”

“For how long?” I ask.

Ethan sighs, tears his ball cap off his head. “Dude, seriously. I don’t know. Depends on how bad it is this time.”

“Just go, man,” I say, digging in the footwell for my phone. “I’ll be fine.”

“I owe you,” Ethan says, rapping his fist against the door before taking off down the driveway at a fast clip. I exhale, watch him go, and try not to think about the fact that I can see Ava Germaine’s car in my side mirror, her I’m My Own Copilot bumper sticker proclaiming she’s got her shit together in ways that I don’t. I pull up Rock Bottom. Burnedoutgirl isn’t online, but I scroll through some of her old posts.