8. Indy #2
He throws me a look. His lips twitch, and he snorts. “I’m already trembling. You’re clearly a lean, mean, killing machine.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate me. I’ve got skills, and I’ve gotten into plenty of fights.”
Technically that might be a bit of an exaggeration.
I definitely kicked Joey Lombardi’s ass, MMA-style.
But that accomplishment loses some of its shine once you consider the fact that we were eleven, and he was exceptionally clumsy for his age, so most of the eye gouging happened because he did it to himself.
Nick throws me another look but doesn’t say anything else about my supposed fighting prowess.
I look out into the darkness, my temple still against the cool glass.
“I used to get really carsick when I was younger,” I say.
He goes so still that I have an almost irresistible urge to laugh, and then he scowls at me like the fact that I used to puke during car rides when I was six is a fatal character flaw.
“And you’re telling me this because…?” he asks.
“Just a fun fact about me. Do you have any of those paper bags lying around, by chance?”
“You and I have wildly different ideas about what constitutes fun.”
I hum. “I also used to get these epic asthma attacks. Blue in the face. On the brink of death. That’s another fun fact for you. Did you know you can’t outgrow asthma? It goes into remission, but it’ll come back. So now I’m thinking… does carsickness work the same way?”
I lean forward and start making gagging noises.
He sighs and looks up at the ceiling of the car. “Why are you like this?”
I shrug and lean back while I enjoy getting to him. It doesn’t happen often.
We’re both silent for a little while. I’m usually not the best at being silent.
It always ends up feeling awkward, so I try to put a stop to it before it gets to that point, but with Nick it’s always been different.
I care less about what he might think about me or how he feels.
He’s been methodically torching those bridges for so long that I don’t have the energy to overthink by now.
It’s not like there’s some high opinion of me I could plant and nurture inside him.
“I didn’t know you have asthma,” he says.
He makes it sound like I personally requested to have my airways not function properly for shits and giggles and should have known better than to get that setting, which is to say he manages to sound both slightly put off and judgmental.
“It’s not like I advertise it,” I say.
“Seeing that this is something that might kill you if not managed properly, maybe that’s something to reconsider.”
“I’ll alert the media,” I say off-handedly.
His fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
“Death by respiratory failure isn’t an especially pleasant way to go, so I’d at least consider mentioning it to the people who actually live in the same house as you.”
My eyes snap toward him, and I wince, my face heating, but this time from shame, so that’s a change.
I press my lips together for a moment and wait until my heart stops beating too fast. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come off like that. I didn’t mean to be flippant.”
He doesn’t say anything or acknowledge what I said. His knuckles are still white, the muscles of his forearms looking like they’ve been carved out of granite with how little he moves.
It takes him forever to lose the rigid hold of himself.
This silence is definitely awkward.
“Took you long enough,” Dia says when we pull up to Jake’s cabin.
“It’s like you want to walk home,” I say.
She grins at me and pats me on the cheek before she shouts “Shotgun!” and rushes toward the car under some misguided notion that I’m vying for that seat.
“Good luck with the keys, Jakey,” Bridge calls, and blows a kiss to Jake.
India beats Bridge to the passenger door and slides in with a triumphant smile, already reaching for the radio. Bridget laughs and sticks her tongue out at her before she climbs into the back.
Which leaves me the seat behind the driver.
Behind Nick.
I hesitate for half a second before I get in. I’m tempted to say I’ll walk home instead.
We pull away from the cabin. Dia and Bridge start filling me in about what I missed by skipping their party, and I try to listen. I try to pay attention. I really do.
But my eyes have a mind of their own. They drift up to the rearview mirror, and I try to make it look like an accident. Like it’s a pit stop for my gaze on its way to something else.
Nick’s eyes meet mine.
I get stuck.
His gaze is a flicker. Lightning fast, like he wasn’t really looking.
My stomach tightens, and I jerk my head around to face the window, staring at the dark trees rushing past.
Thirty seconds later I glance up again.
His eyes hold mine for a beat.
Two beats.
The back of my neck gets hot.
India changes the radio station, and the music blasts louder. Nick breaks the eye contact, turning his attention back to the road.
I slump lower in the seat. My pulse is doing something weird, going haywire on the insides of my wrists.
Outside, the highway curves into the darkness.
In the mirror, Nick’s eyes flick up again.
Just for a flash.
I feel like we’re standing on top of a powder keg.
And he has the matches.