11. ELEVEN
ELEVEN
It feels like I don’t have a choice.
The logical side of my brain knows that I do. An all-consuming animalistic thrashing beats against my skull, though. A roar so loud it deafens all other sound while large paws with sharp nails pace in the metaphorical cage within me.
I’m in Hunter’s car, wearing clean, new clothes, and on the highway. I haven’t been on a highway in years. Everything whirls by the window in a blur, too fast for me to focus and too muddy to take notes of.
The overhead exit signs confuse me as names of streets I’ve never seen before pass us by with each mile driven. My toes curl in the new shoes that are a size too big—something Hunter was crushed over. It wasn’t like I let him measure my feet before he slipped out and bought them.
We haven’t spoken much, and I don't have anything to say.
Before we left the hotel, he explained where I’d spend this upcoming evening and where this summer cabin was. I don’t know a fucking thing about rich people's woods or their cabins. None of it was helpful to me.
Most people tend to run in the opposite direction of places harboring their worst moments—a reasonable reaction, honestly. But I don’t view my hometown as a bad place despite the countless bad things that have happened there.
It’s my umbilical cord—the only thing keeping me alive.
How far do I have to go before it snaps entirely? Severing that life thread I depend on?
I glance over at Hunter as he drives. His shoulders are pulled back, his jaw set, and he is manhandling the steering wheel like it personally offended him.
Is he already regretting this?
Seeing how much work it’s going to take?
Realizing the complications that will eventually arise?
I want to ask—no, demand an answer. Or maybe it’s reassurance that I’m looking for. A few words to soothe my hackles and let the writhing beast in my chest know I’ll be okay—that the trembling under my feet is just the vibration of the car and not the earth crumbling.
“Hey.”
He glances at me.
“Just one night?”
“Yes, Gray.”
Huh. That’s rather snippy.
“Alright,” I grunt and face the side window.
After a few seconds, he sighs and says, “I have to meet my dad this evening. I—I’m dreading it, honestly.”
My eyebrow raises—the good one—and I again face him. “Because of this?”
Shaking his head, he reaches for the pack of cigarettes in the cup holder and goes to take one out but stops and offers me one first. I take it, muttering a “thanks” before he cracks the windows.
The loud whoosh of air enters the cab, but I ignore it. I light my cigarette, then lean over. Our eyes connect momentarily while I hesitantly flick the lighter and cup the flame. He leans into the fire, and our arms brush slightly. My stomach flips a little, so I quickly fall back into my seat.
We both take a drag, blowing the smoke towards the windows, and he speaks first. “My dad likes to keep tabs on the business side of things. Technically, he owns part of the company I work for, but I’m acting COO for the time being until he signs his shares over to me.”
“COO?” I ask, feeling dumb.
“Chief Operating Officer. It’s a fancy name that means one step below the main guy.”
“Oh.” I take a puff, flicking the ash through the cracked window. “What company is it?”
He shifts in his seat, mirroring my motions with his cigarette. “Olympian Aero Tech. We supply the parts and electronics for military airplanes and commercial crafts, among other things. I work in the executive branch, overseeing the boring part of it all.”
My jaw drops a little. He’s rich , rich.
“Did you go to school for it?” Of course, he did.
“Some, yes.”
“Are you into airplanes or somethin’?”
He smirks. “When I was a kid. I had thought about being a pilot, but… well, it seems I was always meant to run the show versus act in it, so to speak.”
I frown. “That’s stupid.”
A chuckle. “Stupid?” Flicking his eyes to mine, he puffs his cigarette while I shrug.
“You have the entire world at your fingertips. If you want to fly an airplane, fly one. I—not many have that.”
Something washes over his face, a hardness I haven’t seen before. I don’t know what it means, and it feels weird to ask, so I let the subject drop. It’s quiet for a while while we finish our cigarettes. I glance around for somewhere to put it out but come up empty.
“I usually don’t smoke in my car,” he mumbles, then tosses his butt out.
Well, he did it first.
I do the same, and he runs a hand through his hair. “The house won’t have much stocked as far as food goes, so we can pick up something in town.”
Topic change. Got it. Flying is a sensitive subject. “Alright.”
“Anything you are in the mood for?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” he insists, flicking the turn signal to switch lanes.
I’m not all that hungry; my odd breakfast still lingers in my body.
I don’t usually get too much to eat these days, so I’m used to going without.
When I was a kid, my appetite was insatiable.
A garbage disposal is what my mom would call me.
Something like a smile tugs at my lips for a second before it falls away.
Food is fucking food. I might not like gas station hot dogs, but if it’s that or I go hungry, I’ll take it every time.
“Well?” he prompts.
“Banana bread.” It slips out involuntarily—chalk it up to thinking about my mom.
That deep chuckle sounds through the car as he peeks at me. “Banana bread?”
“It used to be one of my favorites.”
“Used to?”
“I don’t get it.” I frown.
“If something is your favorite, that implies it still is.”
“Favorites change. People forget about them or find something better,” I argue because his logic doesn’t make sense.
“I think it’s more of people thinking they need to seek out something better instead of accepting what they like. Or even changing those tastes to fit a better narrative or image. Favorite literally means preferred above all others of the same kind.”
“What are you, a dictionary?” I laugh.
“No, but indulge me. If you had every type of bread laid out before you, which one would you pick?”
Well, he’s got me there. “Banana. Every fucking time.”
“Then,” he says brightly, “it’s still your favorite.”