We proceed to not talk. The car fills up with quiet, like water rushing in following our plunge off the bridge of this conversation. It’s not long before the hushed hum of the road under my tires becomes unbearable.
I give up and reach for the radio knob—right as Fitz does too. Our hands collide before we both instantly pull back.
It’s one of those romance-movie moments, where the hero and heroine both blush, the heady current of contact rushing between them. Except it is not romantic. It’s cringeworthy. The mutuality of our defeat makes the whole thing way worse.
“Um, sorry,” Fitz fumbles to say.
I reach for chagrinned politeness like his and find only exasperation. “Hold up,” I say loudly enough to startle. “Why is this suddenly the most awkward car ride of my entire life?”
I steal a glance at him. He looks physically pained. “Surely you’ve had worse,” he suggests weakly.
“Nope. This wins.”
“Well, it’s definitely your fault,” he replies.
I round on him, tearing my eyes from the highway for a brief moment. “My fault?” I repeat incredulously. “It’s definitely not my fault. I think it’s because we don’t have enough in common. We probably exhausted everything we have to say to each other, and we’re not compatible enough for, you know, daily conversation.” The whole idea of this drive, this trip, is beginning to feel ridiculous.
I expect my theory to worry Fitz, because honestly it worries me. It’s the fear I’ve been pressing to the corner of my thoughts for this entire car ride.
But it doesn’t appear to bother him at all. Bizarrely, it seems to relax him. He leans back, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater and revealing—nice forearms. I don’t know why my brain has decided to zero in on his forearms, the light lines of muscle running to his wrist, while I’m questioning the entire premise of our compatibility. Probably because it’s not my brain doing the noticing.
“That’s not it at all,” he says easily. His confidence relaxes me, and I focus on the road, somewhat relieved. “It’s because you began this trip with Matt, you imagined this trip with Matt. Instead you have me, but you’re thinking about him.”
Wincing, I open my mouth and I find I can’t deny what he’s saying. “I’m not anymore.” It’s the truth. I haven’t thought about Matt since we broke this conversation open and began examining what was wrong with it.
Fitz grins. “Good.”
Heat races from my cheeks into my fingers on the wheel, and that’s when I realize I’m not, in fact, thinking about Matt. Not at all. In the start-and-stop traffic I find myself stealing looks in Fitz’s direction. His recently exposed forearms, his hands resting delicately on his dictionary. I didn’t know I had a thing for hands, but I definitely have one for Fitz’s. Kind of the way I have a thing for the winter-sky blue of his eyes, the untidy curtain of red hair covering his forehead, the precise angle of his nose, the restless twist of his lips.
I blink. Focus, Juniper. I’m going to crash the car if I keep this up.
Fitz’s phone vibrates. He pulls it from his pocket. “Lewis got to the hotel,” Fitz tells me, reading the screen. “He’s checking in now.” He frowns, reading his phone.
“What?” I prompt.
“Oh. Just Lewis,” Fitz grumbles.
His tone has me curious. From my conversation with Lewis last night, I’ve started to get one brother’s side of their relationship. I don’t know Fitz’s, but I wonder if it’s something he might not want to keep to himself. “What do you mean?”
“He’s . . . He made a dumb joke about whose room I’ll stay in tonight.” Fitz puts the phone down and looks up. “He’s constantly saying stupid stuff like that. I apologize in advance for how obnoxious it is.” He forces a smile, one I know is hiding his frustration. “I did explain Lewis and I aren’t biologically related, right?”
I laugh, because I can tell he means it as a joke. “I think