Bright Before Sunrise(61)

“Never mind,” she mutters, retracting her hand and retracing her steps. Climbing inside my car and yanking the door shut behind her.

It’s not until she’s out of earshot that I have the courage to be truthful. I mouth my answer to the space she’d just occupied: You.

I spend another thirty seconds standing there—rolling my neck in a circle like I used to do before winding up, trying to push the tension out of my muscles and find that calm and centered mental place I lived in on the pitching mound.

We’re both tired. It’s been a long night. The last thing either of us needs is a confession or more talk about emotions. I’ll just—

Her car door opens.

“Jonah?” Her voice is so small, so soft. It sounds almost frightened; the thought that she still might be scared of me makes me sick.

Screw it.

“You, Brighton. That’s what—” I say, turning around. She looks terrified. Or hurt. “Are you okay?”

She presses a fist to her mouth and says, “I’m sorry,” around her fingers. With her other hand she points to the front of the car.

“Did some idiot hit me?” I exhale my disgust and palm my phone, ready to start texting to ask who saw what. Except, no. The front of my car is intact. No more beat-up than it had been before.

It’s the windshield she was pointing to. It’s not busted or cracked. Instead there’s a message scrawled on it in letters that shine in the streetlight: PENCIL DICK LOSER.

I punch the doorframe without thinking and then have two reasons to be swearing.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again.

“It’s not your fault,” I spit out between swears.

“You don’t have any Windex in your car, do you?” she asks, coming to stand next to me.

“Sure. It’s right between my vacuum cleaner and my toilet brush. Why the hell would I keep Windex in my car?” As soon as the words are out, I curse myself.

Pencil dick. Does she think it’s true? I just finished telling her what a loser I am, but does she think the rest of it’s true too?

She’s leaning over the windshield, wiping at the letters with a napkin she must have gotten from my glove compartment.

“I’m pretty sure it’s lip gloss,” she says over her shoulder, leaning further in a way that pulls her dress up. I want to slide her off the hood and prove it isn’t true. She stretches, going up on the toes of her noninjured foot and revealing just a hint of white. I groan.

“Are you okay?” Brighton straightens, and her dress falls back to midthigh. I look away from her legs before I develop any more antigraffiti proof. But she’s not helping the situation when she reaches out and takes my hand in hers, studying my knuckles. They’re red but not split. “You’re going to have a bruise. I’m sorry.”

She covers the injury with the cool palm of her other hand. The gesture is so comforting, I want to close my eyes and forget everything but her touch. But her voice contains all the pity I don’t want to see on her face. Pity for the loser with undersized man-parts.

So, instead, I yank my hand back and say, “Oh, I forgot you were the one who slammed my hand into the door and wrote on my windshield. Wait. You weren’t? Then why the hell do you keep apologizing for things that aren’t your fault?”

She flinches.

I glare at the car, where Carly’s handiwork has been turned into a smudge that covers half the windshield. “You made it worse.” I know I’m being an ass, but I can’t take back the words or look at her hurt eyes. Or calm down. I. Can’t. Calm. Down.

“I’m sorry,” I manage, but it sounds like a growl.

“Saying ‘I’m sorry’ afterward doesn’t give you permission to act like a jerk.” There’s pain in her voice and also anger.

“I know.”

“You’re not mad at me.”

“I know.”

“Good. Now give me your keys and let’s see if the windshield wipers are more effective than I was.”

She trades a stack of napkins for my keys, and I feel like a scolded child as she starts my car. Blue fluid squirts onto the glass, dissolving and wiping away the pieces of napkin but only beading on and further smearing the glossy graffiti.

“Let me try again with the napkins,” I say as she says, “Maybe more fluid?” I’m leaning over the windshield when she hits the wiper stick. The spray catches me full in the face and I jump back to prevent my hands from getting caught in the blades. I use one of the napkins to blot windshield fluid from my cheeks.

I glare at her around the napkin, and she’s covering her mouth with both hands. Laughing. Or trying not to. But her eyes are shining with amusement and her cheeks are pink with the effort.

It cracks something in me. I want to pull her hands away from her face and see that smile. I grin at her. “You did that on purpose—but I guess I deserved it.”

She’s openly giggling now, adding spaces between words to catch her breath. “I swear. I didn’t. Promise.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you,” I say. “Napkins aren’t going to cut it. Check the backseat. Is there anything back there?” I look away as she scampers over the console and probably flashes some serious thigh. The idea makes my blood pound. I shift and try to think of anything but the fact that she’s in my backseat.