Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(70)

“So, you hungry? I skipped breakfast,” he says.

“Uhm, yeah…I could eat,” I say, my chest suddenly feeling tighter.

“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the front door. I look away from his reflection, to the real him, and I follow him out, walking a few steps behind, watching his form. His body is still bruised, but the swelling in his face is gone. His shoulders are broader, his T-shirt clinging to his back, his jeans loose around his waist. His feet are in flip-flops, sliding along the ground.

“We can go somewhere close. I don’t want you to have to carry your bag far,” I say.

He chuckles.

“Nah, let’s go get pancakes at Estos,” he says. Estos is far, maybe a half an hour away, which means I’ll be with him for most of the morning, alone, away from my roommate, who’s sort of dating him, I think…

“Oh no, it’s okay, close is fine,” I say, fumbling to make an excuse, to stay near home base, to keep the option of backing out of this crazy idea if I want to. I stop talking, though, when I notice his car parked in the lot. Suddenly breathing becomes hard, and that night comes crashing over me—the lights flashing, the man on the road, my hands numb, my eyes burning, my future gone.

My lips open with a gasp, and I suck in a hard breath.

“My heart…” I say, my words almost a whisper, my voice cracking and stopping before I say too much.

“Huh?” he asks, turning and seeing me. He drops his bag and reaches for my hand when he fully takes me in. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit…I’m so sorry, Emma. I thought you’d like to see it, my car, all fixed up. I just got it back, and I was excited. I didn’t even think about what…I…I just didn’t think.”

I look down, my fingertips in his palm, his other hand on my arm. It’s a cautious touch, but he did it so fast—on instinct.

He’s always acting on instinct…for me.

“I’m…I’m okay,” I pant. “It’s weird, I haven’t panicked like that in a while. I’m fine, really,” I stammer, my mind catching up to the words I said, the admission that I once panicked. Five years ago, the panic came often, hitting me when I least expected it—sparked by seeing a fire truck race by, from riding in a car through the woods or sometimes a nightmare. I’m not sure when it began to fade, but one look at his car brought those feelings screaming back to the surface.

Andrew keeps his fingers loosely tangled with mine, and his eyes move down to where our hands are touching as he peels his hold away one finger at a time. I feel sadder with each finger that leaves my hand. Everything gets colder. It feels like…loss.

“Okay, if you’re sure.” His voice is quiet, and his face is wearing a mix of disappointment and worry.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I push my lips together and force a smile, begging my stomach to stop clenching.

I move to the passenger side and pause, looking to him before I tug on the handle.

“Owen…he had it fixed,” he smiles.

I grin back, then glance down at the handle again, still swimming in memories. Some of them, though…are good.

“So you mean I don’t get you opening the door for me like a gentleman anymore,” I smirk. I’m flirting. I shouldn’t be flirting. It’s my nerves.

Andrew stops at his door, pulling it open but leaning over the top of the car, both hands flat on the surface as he stares at me, one eyebrow raised.

“I will open doors for you anytime, Emma Burke,” he says, the left side of his lip raised as he chews at the inside of his cheek. His eyes are soft, and smiling with his lips, then he taps the roof of the car once and climbs in. I do as well.

Andrew is flirting back. I swallow hard.

Inside the car is almost worse than outside. While the gashes, poor paint and other exterior things are all gone from the outside, covered in a fresh coat of slick, racing black and polish, the inside is still the same—still packed with memories everywhere I look. I focus intently on my seatbelt, on pulling it tight, on the vents in front of me. I tuck my purse between my feet and squeeze, focusing on the feel of my muscles pushing against it. I focus on anything I can that isn’t the feel of my legs on Andrew’s lap, my lips on his, his hands around my waist—and the crash.

“Are you sure? We could walk,” he says, the keys perched at the ignition, his hand gripping the wheel, his head tilted to the side, eyes bruised, but looking so full of hope.

“I’m okay,” I exhale, letting my body relax a little. I glance to the side of his face, then smile bigger. “And you still have holes in your ears.”

His head falls forward on the wheel, and he laughs hard as he turns the engine over. “Yes, Emma. Yes, I do,” he says, continuing to laugh as he looks over his shoulder and pulls us out onto the road.

He drives slowly, always five miles slower than the limit, and he doesn’t speak. He’s being careful and cautious for me. He doesn’t have to say so; I know he is. The first ten minutes in the car with him is nothing but silence, even the radio on a gentle hum. Looking at it, I doubt it can go any louder. I laugh to myself because I doubt Andrew even likes the slow rock music that’s playing. My mind is racing with all of the questions I still have, but I don’t know how to start them.

Every now and then, he glances to me, then back to the road. Each look is full of an almost—a question, an answer. Finally, one comes.