Chapter Ten
Evan
Molly stands in my doorway, eyes flared and fists clenched as if she’s about to grab me by the throat. Hair shoved up in a messy knot. Backpack strap digging into her shoulder. Cheeks pink with anger — maybe cold, maybe panic, maybe because I’m standing here in nothing but boxers like an idiot.
“Can I get a ride to school?”
I blink, pause, breathe, because it’s the only way to keep from saying something stupid while my brain tries to catch up.
The hallway light’s still buzzing overhead.
It’s half past seven in the damn morning, and I’m standing in the open in nothing but a pair of plaid boxers.
I haven’t even started the coffee. “You want…a ride?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “No please?” I tilt my head, letting my eyes rake over her in a way that makes her nostrils flare. “No, ‘I’m sorry I’m interrupting your morning for a schoolgirl emergency?’”
Her eyes spark exactly like I want them to.
“Schoolgirl? Do not,” she snaps, stepping closer like she might shove me backward into my apartment, “call me that.”
I grin. “Why not? It’s cute.”
It’s more than cute.
“I will hammer your nose into your face.”
“You know, fighting like that will probably get you put in detention. They might even make you skip recess.”
“Shut up. Put some fucking clothes on and grab your keys.” She jabs a finger at my chest like it’s a weapon. “And if you say ‘cute’ again, I’m going to punch your face off.”
I glance past her into the hallway. “You’re in a hurry and you’re making threats when you want something from me. That’s cute.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. She swears under her breath — something creative and mean — and looks away like she’s trying to breathe through a problem.
“Evan. Please.”
The way she says my name is a warning shot, and the way she says ‘please’ tells me that if I don’t fucking cooperate, she will murder me without question.
This is exactly what I wanted, even though I’ve been doing everything not to show it.
Satisfied, I lift both hands. “Okay. Okay.” I step back into my apartment.
“Give me sixty seconds. Then I can give you a ride.”
She crosses her arms and plants her boots like she’s guarding the threshold. “Okay. Sixty seconds.”
I can feel her eyes on my back as I move — like she’s pretending she’s not looking and failing at it.
I grab jeans off the chair, yank them on, shove my feet into boots, and tug a t-shirt over my head.
Keys. Wallet. Phone. I catch my reflection in the mirror for half a second — jaw tight, eyes too sharp, looking like someone with something to hide instead of just a tired neighbor doing a favor — and force an easy grin back onto my face.
When I come back to the door, she’s still there, still tense.
“See?” I say. “Dressed. Ready.”
She looks me up and down like she’s judging a suspect. “You look like hell.”
“Liar. I look like your freaking savior.” I lock the door behind me and fall into step with her. “Lead the way, school—”
She stops so fast I almost bump into her.
I hold up a hand. “Not going to say it. I like living.”
We take the stairs two at a time. The building smells of stale carpet and cheap air freshener. Her boots hit each step as if she’s trying to break the concrete out of spite.
In the parking lot, she doesn’t even glance at her truck. She goes straight for my sedan like it personally offended her.
“Can you tell me how the hell you can stand driving that thing?” she says, pointing.
“Gas mileage. Efficiency. It gets me where I need to go. That’s what I care about,” I say, hating every word that spills out of my mouth. I unlock it and open the passenger door with a little flourish. “Your chariot awaits.”
She slides in like she’s doing it under protest, slamming the door hard enough that the whole car shudders. I circle around and get behind the wheel.
The second I start the engine, she says, “No talking.”
I laugh. “Bossy.”
“No. Talking.” She pulls her seatbelt on and stares straight ahead like the road might judge her. “I need to get my head on straight for my test. I didn’t count on having to deal with your half-naked bullshit this morning.”
I back out and head toward the main road, tires crunching on gravel.
The morning is gray and damp, the kind of Oregon day that makes everything feel like it’s holding its breath.
Trees line the street, wet and dark. The town’s still yawning awake — one gas station open, one truck rolling by, steam rising off asphalt.
Molly rubs her palms down her thighs once, sharp and restless, then grips her backpack like it’s a lifeline.
“You’re really taking accounting at the community college?” I ask anyway.
Her head snaps toward me. “I said no talking.”
“I heard you. I’m choosing violence.” I glance at her. “Accounting is brutal. Respect.”
Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Almost.
“I’m going for a business degree. Most of my courses are online to fit my schedule, but some things I have to do in person. With other people,” she says finally, like she hates admitting it. “It isn’t my favorite, but it’s worth it. I’m not pouring drinks forever.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.” She frowns at me as if she’s trying to figure out what angle I’m working. “I’m serious,” I add. “That takes guts.”
“Guts?” she scoffs. “It takes caffeine and masochism.”
“Masochism is an underrated fuel source.”
She stares out the window again, jaw tight, but the tension in her shoulders eases by one inch.
The college comes into view — low brick buildings hunkered down behind chain-link and a parking lot strewn with the battered hopes of every commuter student in the county.
The place is already buzzing even though it’s barely eight—kids in hoodies dart between buildings, backpacks slapping their spines.
I snake the sedan up to the curb by the front entrance and let the engine idle.
Molly stiffens in the passenger seat, clutching her bag like it might leap through the windshield without her say-so. For a second she just sits, glaring at the fortress of academia ahead, jaw set like she’s about to gear up for an assault. Then, with a long breath, she reaches for the handle.
But she doesn’t open the door. Not right away. Her hand hovers, knuckles white, and she glances at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Evan,” she says, the fight draining out of her voice. For the first time all morning, it’s soft. Almost a secret. “I don’t need —”
“A ride back?” I offer. I can’t help it, can’t let the moment slip. I’m half hoping she’ll take the bait and half dreading what she’ll do with it.
She scowls, but it’s more automatic than real. “I can call someone.”
“Who?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “A friend? A… member of your study group? Another neighbor you ask for emergency transportation in exchange for nothing but threats?”
She glares harder. “I’m not threatening you.”
“Look. I know you don’t enjoy asking for things.” I keep my eyes on the windshield, sidelong so it won’t feel like a lecture. “But it’s just two hours. I can wait.”
She shakes her head, almost smiling. “You’re gonna sit in this parking lot for two hours. For fun.”
“I’m a glutton for punishment. We’ve been over this.”
She stares out at the campus, brows low, lips pressed tight. “It’s not your problem.”
I cut my gaze to her. “I’m offering. Of my own free will.”
She scoffs. “I’ll be grumpy.”
“I’ve noticed.” The corner of my mouth twitches up. “It’s kind of adorable. Cute, even.”
“Evan.”
“Okay, fine.” I lift a hand. “I’ll stop using the word. But I’m waiting.”
There’s a long silence, the tension cooling into something softer. She drums her fingers on the bag, a nervous little tattoo, then squeezes her eyes shut for a heartbeat before popping them open again.
“Two hours?” I ask.
She nods, not trusting herself to speak. I watch her wrestle herself through every possible response, like she’s got a hundred years of pride stacked up in her ribcage and if she lets any of it slip, she’ll collapse.
“Fine,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Fine,” I echo.
She opens the door fast, like the moment’s a fire and she’ll burn if she stays. Backpack hits the pavement, boots follow, and she’s already halfway up the walkway before she remembers herself. She spins, jogs back to the car, and opens the door again.
She pushes her face in, cheeks flushed.
“Thanks,” she says, and you’d think she was swallowing glass, the way her voice cracks around the word. Something in my chest breaks open. Before I can answer, she’s gone again, hurrying up the steps, almost running, ponytail whipping behind her.
I watch her go, the weirdest warmth pooling in my chest. It’s not relief, and it’s not victory, either. It’s something stupider—a sunbeam sneaking through the clouds, a little burst of stupid hope that I can’t quite justify.
She disappears through the double doors. I keep my eyes on the spot, like she might pop back out and need another rescue.
My phone buzzes in my lap. June's face flashes through my mind. I don’t answer it. I just stare at the college doors, at the spot where she vanished, at the way she said thank you like it mattered.
I have two hours.
A mission timer.
And I know exactly what I’m going to do with it.