Drive(6)

“Waitress?” I shuddered. “No offense, but hell no. I’d be terrible. I’ll find something close and ride with you until I can get a car.”

She nodded, her worry more for me than for my situation. But due to our difference in lifestyle, I was sure our arrangement would start to tether us sooner rather than later. She was a go-to-bed-early and arrive-at-work-on-time-with-her-shit-together kind of gal. I was a night owl who craved live shows and the next good time, and almost always ran late unless I was running in the direction of music.

“I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice. “I screwed up, Paige. I got a little carried away.” I swallowed my hurt pride. “I’ll get out of your hair soon, I promise.” My voice cracked as we pulled up to the entrance of the complex and sat at the stop sign.

“You’re going to be okay. You do know that, right?” Not one to offer affection, she palmed my knee just as a guy opened the opposite passenger door of the backseat, got in, and sat next to me. Jumping back, I scoured his face for details—for the police—both fight and flight kicking in while he looked me over with equal interest.

Panicking, I addressed the intruder. “Can we help you?”

Full cranberry-tinted lips twisted into a smirk as he sized me up. “I don’t know, little sister, can you help me?”

Paige chuckled as she looked back at my panicked face. “Stella, this is Reid. I told you about him. I told you he lived here, remember?”

“I remember.” Except I didn’t. I’d been too busy fawning after an asshole in Dallas to retain anything Austin. Resigned that I was now permanently in the place where I’d fought so hard to get to, I looked over to Reid on the seat next to me while he invaded the small space of the car. His left arm was in a neon-green cast, and he looked freshly showered. His chin-length, dark-brown hair dripped at the ends. A simple white T-shirt clung to his broad frame and tapered to his trim waist. He wore dark blue jeans and black boots. The crown of his head touched the roof of the car. That was all I noticed before I dismissed him and let thoughts of my previous life take over. I’d opted for a night out with my sister to drown out the humdrum and annoying routine of my new life. Paige told me it was one of the first nights she wasn’t going to a bar and “little sister” was invited.

I’d had to repress my “whoopty-fuckin’-doo” to accept the invitation. I’d spent days wandering around the wooded park across from her apartment and cleaning her toilet to earn my keep. Spontaneity was my sole purpose in life. I needed to be free of routine to exist, and so far, Austin was a bully. First my car, and then my boyfriend.

Austin-2, Stella-fucked.

Paige spoke animatedly as we drove to a neighborhood on the edge of the city. Still stuck on the message I’d left Dylan, and the one I didn’t have coming, I didn’t bother asking where we were going as we headed into a house with a gallon of tequila and a bag full of mixers. I was introduced to some work friends that I didn’t bother to memorize the names of before I made myself comfortable on the couch in the living room of the spacious house. Everyone else was on the porch while I sat inside in my own little bubble of despair. I had no one in Austin but my sister, who had decided being five years older made her the matriarch of the relationship. I gave her that freedom because, honestly, I couldn’t have cared less. Still, Paige had been good to me, she made sure I slept comfortably on her couch and gave me the first margarita made in the kitchen that night, which I drank down easily.

Eyeing my surroundings, mismatched furniture, bookshelves filled with endless hardbacks, knickknacks, and a plethora of plants, I spotted a rack of magazines. I plucked out a Spin with a cover that read “Foo Fighter’s: The Secret Life of Dave Grohl” and started flipping through. Laughter and the smell of weed drifted from the partially opened patio door as I peeked over the top of the magazine. Everyone outside seemed to be in good spirits as they sat around a kaleidoscope tile-covered picnic table, drinking stout margaritas while they bullshitted. The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” filtered past the laughter, and even in my sour mood, I began to hum along. Halfway through the interview, I studied the snapshots of Dave Grohl and glanced back over through the open blinds to look at Reid.

Reid looked a little like Dave Grohl.

Or maybe Reid was trying to look a little like Dave Grohl.

The tequila told me that was hysterical, and I found my eyes drifting back to him as I laughed at the similarities.

Reid’s eyes found mine across the space, and I quickly averted mine. But I was too late.

The door slid open. “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m not laughing,” I said absently while I flipped another page.

“Okay.”

“Just reading about your twin,” I said with a grin, though I was sure he hadn’t heard due to the ice dispenser in the kitchen and wall between us. “What’s that?”

Tequila, or utter stupidity, had me speaking again. “You look a little like Dave Grohl.”

“He looks like me.”

“So, you hear that a lot?”

“Fucking daily. And we have a lot in common.”

“You’re in a band?”

A casted arm poked out of the kitchen with his reply. “Not today.”

“Yeah, that sucks. Sorry.”

I didn’t ask him what happened because I didn’t care. I couldn’t. I was trying my best minute by minute not to think about Dylan, and the humiliation that came with letting a guy like that take any sort of lead with me. I just wanted to be alone to sulk with my magazine. Picking up another, I began thumbing through and winced when I realized Reid stood expectantly at the edge of the couch with a fresh margarita in hand. No matter how pretty he was, I didn’t want his company.