The Simple Wild: A Novel(32)

He’s not as bulky as his jacket made him look yesterday, either. Or rather, he’s big but he’s surprisingly fit, as just made evident by the glimpse I caught of a ribbed torso before his black shirt hid the pleasant sight away.

But it’s his eyes that are the most jarring to me. They are piercing in their hard gaze, but his irises are the lightest, prettiest shade of ice blue I’ve ever seen on a man.

Beneath all that unkempt hair, Jonah is actually attractive.

“Calla!”

I startle.

“Did you need something?” he asks slowly, in an irritated way; a way that tells me I missed his words the first time, too busy gawking at him.

Too bad those pretty eyes come with that callous tongue.

I clear my voice. “I need you to take me into town.”

His gaze flickers toward my dad’s house. “What’s wrong with Wren’s truck?”

“Nothing. But I don’t have my license.”

His bushy brows pop. “You’re kidding me. You’re how old and you don’t have your license?”

“I’ve never needed it,” I say defensively.

A slow, knowing smirk touches his lips. “You get everyone else to drive you around, don’t you?”

“No! I live in a city with public transit. Do you know what that is?” I snap, my temper flaring instantly. Something that doesn’t normally happen with strangers. Sure, when I do leave Toronto, it’s at the mercy of someone else—my mom or Simon, Diana, or a slew of other friends who have cars—but there’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s beside the point, anyway.

I knew coming to Jonah was a mistake. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll drive myself. Thanks so much.” Spinning on my heels, I march down the steps and across the lawn, heading straight for my dad’s truck. I yank the door shut behind me and spend a few moments in a murderous rage, my hands flailing about wildly, smacking the glass, the dashboard, and myself, killing the small horde of mosquitoes that followed me inside.

Not until I’m sure every last one is squashed do I let myself settle back into the driver’s seat with a huff of grim satisfaction, fingers curling around the bottom of the steering wheel.

It smells like tobacco in here. There’s no evidence—no butts in a cup, no empty cardboard cast aside, not even that thin plastic strip that seals a fresh pack—but I can smell the cigarettes all the same, the smoke permeated into the worn fabric of the seats.

The keys are right where my dad said they’d be, sitting in the ignition, waiting for me or anyone else to hop in and drive away. The threat of “anyone else” is clearly low.

I could drive into town. It’s two turns, his note said. An empty dirt road that probably leads into a paved one. A few stop signs. Some lights. Green means go, red means stop. It’s not rocket -science, and I’ve been a passenger enough that I can figure this out.

“Crap.” I eye the gear stick jutting out of the floor with dismay. It’s a standard transmission. That is something I can’t figure out, no matter how many times I’ve ridden shotgun.

I let my head fall back as a loud groan escapes my lips. All this open space around me and I’m trapped.

The passenger-side door opens. Jonah slings his arm over the top. “Why do you need me to drive you into town?” His tone is still gruff, but less confrontational.

“Because there’s nothing to eat in that house.”

“Nothing at all.” He smirks.

“Nothing,” I snap, more from frustration than anything else. “Spoiled milk and ketchup. My dad left money and a note, and took off before I was even awake. And Agnes can’t come until noon. My head is throbbing because I haven’t had a coffee yet and I’m starving.” And in an increasingly foul mood.

“That’s not at all dramatic,” Jonah mumbles, glancing at his watch, and then to the east, where a plane descends. He heaves a sigh. “Learn how to ask next time.”

“I did ask.”

“No, that was closer to a demand, and I don’t respond well to those.”

I glare at him, as I mentally replay my exact words. I asked, didn’t I? Maybe not.

“Well?” Those icy blue eyes widen. “I don’t have a lot of time. And you better make it quick because I’ve got a full day of flying if the weather cooperates.” He slams the door and begins trudging back across the road.

With equal amounts of relief and trepidation, I hop out and follow him all the way to his SUV—a boxy, older-model forest-green Ford Escape that’s missing the tailgate tire but is in otherwise decent condition.

With the same surprisingly lithe, sleek movements that I noticed yesterday, he retrieves that black baseball cap from the backseat, the one from yesterday with the letters USAF scrawled across the front in white. With one hand holding his long, scraggly hair back, he slides it onto his head. And then he gets behind the steering wheel.

I climb into the passenger seat, inhaling the faint scent of spearmint gum as he adjusts the vents and turns a dial for the heat on the console, bringing a small gust of warmth into the chilly, dated interior. How old is Jonah’s car, anyway? I can’t remember the last time I was in a car that had a handle on the door to crank the window.

A mosquito floats in front of my face. “Are they always this bad?” I clap my hands together to squash it in my palm.