center of the car and gently pries my hand from the steering wheel. I watch in a silent stupor as she places it on the gear selector, closing my fingers around the lever.
“But I have a better idea, Reynolds.” She looks at me, her hand warm and so heavy on mine that it feels like every point of my body is pinned beneath the weight of it. She breathes, “Just drive.”
My exhale escapes in a measured gust. “Yes, ma’am.”
I put the car in reverse and take one last glance over to make sure she’s okay. Her eyes are forward but she seems less tense, at least. There’s a lock of hair hanging over her cheek and the instinct to reach over and sweep it away, tuck it behind her delicate ear, is so powerful that it’s nearly an ache not to.
Slowly, using every single lesson from Driver’s Ed, I ease the Jeep from the parking space.
I can do this.
We can do this.
Without another thought about why we’re drawn to one another, I pull onto the street and head to Thistle Cove.
15
Vandy
The first twenty minutes of the drive are excruciatingly quiet, but without even having to ask, I know that he wants to focus. He’d seemed so cool at first, when I first got into the Jeep, but I can see it now—the tension in his hands where they grip the steering wheel at perfect ten and two positions, the way his eyes keep jumping to the side of the road, the tight, ticking muscle in his jaw as it clenches. His weird new stillness is in fine form. The top of his back doesn’t even touch the seat, he’s sitting so rigidly.
He’s wearing darker, casual clothes—a black hooded sweater pulled over a shirt that, from the looks of the collar, is soft and worn. He dressed for comfort and utility, but it’s maybe not working out for him.
His forehead sparkles with a fine sheen of sweat.
He waits until we roll to a stop at an intersection to roll his window down, and he probably tries to hide it, but I can tell he’s sucking in these little breaths of the fresh air. I can tell that it’s relaxing him.
But once the Jeep starts moving again…
“It’s better when you can feel the wind whipping around, you know?”
“Reyn, I can’t—” My voice is all choked, and now I’m the one sweating, eyes squeezing shut. “I can’t—the window.” He instantly rolls it up, no questions asked. Maybe he understands.
Softly, he says, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I fumble for the AC controls, and this time we both breathe relieved sighs when the cool air hits us. “That’s better.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
I can’t stop my mild laugh. “God, we’re a mess.”
I feel better when he grins, even though it’s still strained. “Hey, talk to me.”
I look over at him, confused. “About what?”
“Anything.” He grips the wheel tighter. “Tell me about this Thistle Cove drama.”
I realize that his silent focusing technique probably isn’t panning out as effectively as he’d intended. So I settle into my seat and start to tell the story of how the idyllic little town turned into a Lifetime movie complete with sexy school girls, illicit sugar daddies, and murder.
Ten minutes later, Reyn seems appropriately distracted. He’s no longer stick-straight in his seat, strangling the steering wheel. “Wait, you’re telling me that the coach was having an affair with his student—also his best friend’s daughter—and her father was like, the king of the SugarBabies online match-up site?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Yep,” I reply. “Oh also? The girl’s father? He was the mayor.”
“Damn.”
“Right?” I relax a little into my seat. “You know, I kind of wonder if that’s what Afton’s doing with her dad’s friend?”
He lifts a shoulder in a loose shrug, both hands still on the wheel. He’s been a very conscientious driver this whole time, even after he began relaxing. Eyes forward, hands steady, speed level. “It doesn’t sound like it. Whatever Afton’s got going on seems a little more passion-driven than an arrangement.”
“True,” I admit, although the thought of Afton with a guy that old still grosses me out. “You really never heard about that whole story?”
“We didn’t get much news at military school.”
“There was this whole episode about it on Crime Nation.” I shift in my seat, feeling a little embarrassed to admit my guilty pleasure, but I can’t contain my enthusiasm. “God, I love a good true crime story, and this one was so close by!”