Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
CALLAHAN
I’m grateful to even have a car. And usually, I can ignore the fact that it’s a piece of junk.
“This is me,” I say, indicating. Not meeting her eye.
Gwenna nods. “Volvo,” she remarks. “Very safe.”
I tense my jaw a little as I push the key into the driver’s side lock and twist. Say nothing.
“What?”
Her voice startles me. I glance at her.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but you…” She frowns. “Reacted.”
“I’m sorry.”
She sighs—actually sighs. “You don’t need to apologize ,” she says calmly. “You’re allowed to feel…frustrated, or whatever.”
“I’m not frustrated,” I say. “I’m…”
I don’t know what I am. What I feel. Those aren’t things I think about.
“People always say that,” I finish. “About the car. ”
Gwenna cocks her head. “Aren’t they right? I thought Volvos were, like, notoriously safe.”
I lick my lips. “Safety standards have gone up a lot in the last thirty years. Any car on this block is just as safe as this one. This car’s safe mostly because it’s…solid.”
Her eyes flick up and down. Over the car.
Over me.
She shrugs.
“Solid is good.”
A burst of heat, unbidden and unwelcome, flares somewhere deep in my belly, climbs all the way to my cheeks. I take two quick steps to her side of the car, pull open the door and hold it there.
She blinks. “Thanks.” Then gets in.
I nod, and go to take my seat. The car rocks to the left as I get in, and I slide the key in the ignition as she wrestles with the passenger-side seatbelt.
“Damn, really jammed in there,” she mutters.
The heat flares again, fully in my face. “It catches,” I say. “Sometimes.”
She nods, but after another fruitless yank, lets it go, drops her hands to her lap. “Well, just drive carefully.”
Is she kidding? That’s not safe.
I reach over the console, my arm across her shoulders, and give the belt a hard tug. It gives with a jerk, then smoothly as I pull it down to secure it.
Gwenna does, too. And her fingers brush mine.
She glances up, eyes wide like she’s worried she’s hurt me.
“I don’t drive without seatbelts.”
“Of course.” She nods, gives the buckle a little pat. “Thank you.”
I nod, grip the e-brake and push it down, then ease us into the street .
Sarrasford’s narrow and choked with pedestrian traffic, but only about three blocks of business district, so we’re quickly out of the thick of it and onto the winding road back to campus—probably only two miles as the crow flies, but the switchbacks of the hills make it at least a ten-minute drive.
I hold the steering wheel at ten and two, keep my eyes on the road for leaping deer or lingering black ice.
Wish I had a radio or something to turn on.
A few minutes pass in silence. I signal for the turn that starts the climb up to campus, and swing the wheel to the right, the last strains of daylight streaking across the dashboard and catching the surface of my rings.
“Those are nice,” Gwenna says, nodding at my hand.
I tighten my fingers a little. “Thank you. They’re a…” I don’t know why I started that sentence. Don’t really want to finish it.
A beat passes. “A…?” Gwenna prompts.
I chew my bottom lip, eyes straight forward. “A…family heirloom,” I finish.
From the corner of my eye, I see her nod. “Ah. Makes sense.”
At that, I give her the quickest look. “What’s that mean?”
“Just…I didn’t see you as much of a jewelry type,” she says. “You’re very practical. Straightforward. Matter-of-fact.”
I shift a little in the driver’s seat.
She isn’t wrong.
“They’re my parents’,” I say. “Were, I mean.” Reflexively, I rub them together, the wide silver band on my thumb and the thin, delicate gold one on my index finger. “Wedding rings.”
“Oh,” she says simply. Frowns. “Don’t they…get in the way? When you fence?”
“Yes. Sort of.” I run my thumb over the thin gold band, feel the way it catches on the pad of my finger. “I guess that’s kind of the point. That they’re there. A…”
A constant press back on me.
A firm boundary .
A taut leash.
A restraint .
“…a reminder,” I finish.
God. It’s stifling in here. How did I not notice how high the heat was? I reach down with my left hand, turning the manual crank to let in some air. “Sorry.”
Gwenna’s voice is puzzled. “For…?”
“For…the car gets hot.” I pause. “And I don’t really like talking about myself.”
I expect her to say something polite, don’t worry about it or it’s fine.
But she doesn’t.
“God, who does?” She lets out a huff, staring out the window. “I don’t either. I hate it. I hate just…being perceived in general.”
Something about the way she says it—so deadpan, so sincere—pulls a single-syllable laugh out of me.
“What?” she cries, suddenly indignant. “Is that funny?”
“No, it’s not…” I shake my head, still smiling. “It’s just the way you said it. Being perceived .”
“Well, it’s true,” she says, folding her arms. “Sometimes I wish I could just be a brain without a body. Have everything bend to my will around me.”
This girl says the strangest things. I’m kind of captivated. “Really?”
“Sure. I mean, what’s so great about having a body anyway?”
I shrug. “I like it.”
A small, choked sound comes from my right.
Oh. Oh.
The heat is back, pulsing in my cheeks, in my throat, in my…everywhere.
“That’s not…I mean…” My knuckles are pure white on the steering wheel, my hands and abs and biceps clenched tight. “I mean I like having a body. Myself. That’s all. Not that your body isn’t?—”
Jesus. I snap my mouth shut. What am I saying?
“Mm,” is all Gwenna says. From the passenger seat, she shoots me a look. “Careful, now.”
Her voice drops low as she says it, and I freeze, the single command enough to still something deep in me. Like she’d pressed a hand to my chest and said stay.
I would. God, how I would.
“Hey, I’m kidding,” she says, after a moment. “You’re…probably the least at risk for that of the whole team. No offense.”
“None taken.”
You have no idea.
Mercifully, we’re approaching the gates. I swing us through into the side road that leads to the student parking lot, pull us into the reserved spots for Camlann House that are just faintly slick with ice, and kill the engine.
For a second, we just sit there.
“Well, thanks for the ride,” Gwenna says, reaching for the door. “Really, you didn’t have to?—”
Before she can get out, I shoot up out of my seat and jog around the Volvo’s boxy snout to the passenger side, grab the door.
“You’re welcome.” I hold out my free hand. “It’s slippery.”
She looks up at me, frowning briefly, then takes my hand.
As she does, her fingertips brush my rings.
Doesn’t let go.
Stares at them.
“I think it’s nice,” she murmurs. “For what it’s worth. That you wear them.” She looks up at me. “Keep doing that.”
Her tone is light, but something about it pins me still.
Like I’ve been told .
She’s gone before I can respond.