Chapter Eighteen
Evan
I keep my hands at ten and two, rigid, like the sedan deserves respect it never earned.
Four-door, low-mileage; the inside still stinks of off-gassing plastic and the last owner's gardenia air freshener. It's the car companies use in commercials to sell the myth of safety: airbags, lane assist, a seatbelt that hugs you close like a worried mother. I’d rather be balancing between danger and velocity on a bike, blacktop whirring under me, wind trying to sandpaper my cheeks off. But I can’t risk it right now.
Not with this being Twisted Devils territory and not with the Sons of Sorrow watching.
Molly’s truck stays steady in my rearview, always two or three car-lengths exactly, headlights unwavering.
She doesn’t tailgate, doesn’t lag behind.
She holds position with the precision of a sniper, as if following me is a test of willpower or an insult she can outlast. Like she’s telling herself this is nothing, this is fine, this is five minutes and then she’s back to being untouchable.
We burn through two, maybe three sleeping towns on the way out — rows of shuttered gas stations, brightly painted yoga studios, the occasional neon beer sign tiredly blinking “OPEN” at nobody.
Molly keeps up the whole way, like she’s wired into my GPS, like she knows every turn I’ll take before I make it.
By the time I flick the blinker and glide off the highway onto Briar Glen's main drag, the world outside the windshield goes thick with fog and darkness.
Trees crowd the road, and the only light comes from the odd streetlamp reflected in puddles and the flickering red of taillights in the distance.
The place I’m taking her is tucked between a tattoo shop and a closed florist: a bookstore with big windows and warm light, and a sign that reads:
INK she’s drawing a line in the dirt.
Why are we here?
Because I saw your syllabus on the counter. Because I memorized your test dates like they matter. Because you look like you’re holding yourself together with dental floss and spite, and I want to be the thing that loosens the knot.
Because Midnight said results.
Because June.
I pick the safest truth and wrap it in something that sounds normal.
“You’re always saying you have homework,” I tell her. “I figured… you might want to do your studying someplace comfortable.”
Her eyes narrow. “I can study at my place.”
“I know,” I say, and push the door open. “You can. But here’s better.”
A bell chimes. Warmth hits us, along with a blast of coffee, whiskey, paper, cinnamon, and buttercream frosting.
The place is half bookstore, half bar, and a dash of a bakery.
The walls are crowded with mismatched bookshelves, not the kind you buy at Target, but the kind scavenged from dead libraries and estate sales.
Low music hums. A couple sits in a corner booth with a bottle of wine.
Two women laugh softly over board games near the windows.
It’s public. It’s safe. It’s exactly the place someone like Molly can pretend isn’t intimate. Even if it is.
Molly pauses in the entryway, scanning the room as if she’s mapping angles for a hit. Her thumb traces her phone in her pocket. I catch her counting possible exits, and it makes me smile, because that’s exactly what I would do.
“You’re doing that thing,” I say.
“What thing?”
“The ‘if someone tries to murder me, how fast can I grab a chair’ thing.”
Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Habit.”
She still hasn’t unclenched her arms. I nod toward the farthest table, the one I reserved hours ago.
The tabletop is scarred with initials and hearts, but I’ve arranged it like the world’s geekiest penthouse suite: a copy of her macroeconomics textbook, three highlighters, a pack of index cards, two pens, a bottle of Oregon pinot cooling in an ice bucket, and a plate of snacks — cheese, grapes, and squares of dark chocolate.
Next to that, a plate with two cupcakes on it.
For a second, I’m nervous she’ll hate it, that it’ll seem like a trap or a joke.
Molly stops dead.
Then, slow as a sunrise, she turns to me. “Did you… do all this?”
I shrug, but my pulse is pounding hard enough to make my hands twitch. “Yeah.”
Her eyes flick to the textbook. Modern Macroeconomics v. 16. Then to the cards. Then to the wine. Then back to me.
“You brought me here,” she says, voice flat, “for a study date.”
“Something like that.”
Her laugh bursts out, sudden and surprised. It’s quick — like she’s embarrassed to let it exist — then she clamps down on it, covering it with snark.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Sit down,” I say. “Tell me it’s ridiculous from the chair.”
She hesitates. I can see the fight in her eyes — between wanting and refusing to be the kind of woman who wants. Finally, she drags the chair out and drops into it like she’s daring the universe to punish her for accepting something nice.
I slide into the chair across from Molly, the legs scraping the scuffed hardwood in a way that feels too loud for this hush of books and whispered laughter.
The lamp above, patched together from old plumbing fixtures and copper wire, pools the table in honeyed light.
Her freckles, usually camouflaged by bar gloom, come alive.
I’d always pegged her eyes as green, but in this glow they shift—olive, then pine, then something near gold when she glances at me.
I wish I didn’t notice. I wish I didn’t care.
Molly taps the wine bottle with one fingernail. “You don’t even know if I like this wine.”
“I took a guess.”
“What if I hate it?”
“Then you can watch me suffer through it,” I say. “Which feels like your preferred hobby.”
Her lips curve. “Maybe.”
A server approaches — mid-twenties, beard, apron, eyes flicking between us with mild amusement. “You folks good?”
“Coffee,” Molly says immediately, as if she needs something to hold on to.
I nod. “Two coffees.”
The server grins like he knows exactly what kind of night this is. “On it.”
When he walks away, Molly picks up the textbook carefully, as if it might bite. “How did you know what class I’m taking?”
I keep my face blank, aware that every answer is a minefield with her. “Saw your syllabus at your place,” I say. “On the kitchen counter, next to the mug tree.”
“You looked at my stuff?”
“It was on the counter,” I say. “Right next to your sink. Hard to miss.”
She squints at me, weighing whether this is normal curiosity or something more. For a second, I think she’s going to call me a creep. Instead, she lets out a long, slow breath and leans back. “So you stalked my homework. That’s a new one.”
“Only because you don’t talk about yourself. Pardon me for being interested in you.”
“Fine,” she mutters. “But if you judge me for being a nerd, I’ll poison you.”
“I would never,” I say. “I respect nerds. They keep the world running while the rest of us break stuff.”
“You break stuff?”
“Sometimes,” I say, and the word tastes like lies and motorcycles and blood.
The coffees arrive. Molly grabs both hands around the mug, like she needs the heat. “I can’t believe you did all this. You got index cards.”
I push the cards toward her. “Color-coded. I didn’t know which was your favorite, so I bought all three.” After a moment, I add, “So what part of this subject are you struggling with?”
She squints at the cards, then at me. “Who says I’m struggling?”
“You,” I say. “Your face. Your whole… vibe.”
“My vibe,” she repeats, deadpan. “I give off a ‘struggle’ vibe?”
“It’s very ‘I will pass this test or die trying.’”
Her mouth twitches again. “Okay, yeah. You’re right. I am struggling, even though I enjoy the subject.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Not because she admitted she’s struggling, but because she trusted me enough to.
I pick up the pen and some notecards.
“All right,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Come on. Let’s get started.”
Molly stares at the spread — wine, chocolate, the stupid, careful effort — and her lashes lower as if she’s trying to hide the fact it means something.
When she speaks, her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“Thank you, Evan,” she says. “This is absolutely ridiculous…” A beat passes, and a struggle greater than an accounting exam plays out across her face. “…but I love it.”
The words land in me like a punch to the throat, and I almost say it back — those three words that would ruin everything.
Three words that I wanted to say all those years ago, before tragedy took me away from town, made me grow up, made me do things that had me wonder if I’d ever have a right to say those words again.
Instead, I swallow hard, keep my hands busy, keep my eyes on the index cards like they’re my lifeline.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Good. You’re welcome.” Then I point at the first card, because I need a damn distraction from the hurricane of emotions rolling through my chest. “Explain supply and demand like you’re insulting me.”
Molly huffs a laugh, and just like that, she leans in.
And I hate how badly I want to stay right here in this warm corner of her life, pretending I’m not the knife aimed at her throat.