We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,16
I-told-you-so look on his face, so I stare down at my feet instead.
“I really hate you right now,” I tell him, voice hollow.
“I really don’t give a shit.” He pauses. Extends his hand out to me. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
I ignore his hand — and his eyes — as I beeline for the driveway.
Chapter Six
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I drive us home in strained silence.
It’s nearly three. The streets are empty of traffic, but I stick to the back roads in case a cop is cruising to meet his monthly ticket quota. The last thing I can afford is to be pulled over — not with Jo in the car, not with potential scholarships on the line. Not in general.
Since I got my license last year, I have braked fully at every stop sign. I don’t run reds. Hell, I don’t run yellows. The guys on the team give me shit for it — “Reyes, my grandma drives faster than you!” — but they wouldn’t understand. If a cop pulls them over, they get off with a verbal warning. A free pass. A sedate “Say hi to the folks for me, son.”
Me?
I get the quizzical “How did you afford this nice truck?” look. I get my plates run. And, as soon they see the name REYES pop up in their system, I get the book thrown at me.
Big thanks to my brother Jax for making our family notorious in this town.
The windows are cranked down, letting in a stream of warm, early-summer air. Jo’s got her head hanging out like a dog. I can’t decide if it’s because she’s drunk or because she can’t stand to look at me. Maybe a little of both.
My grip tightens on the wheel and I grimace as pain shoots through the knuckles of my right hand. Using my pitching arm to smash in Snyder’s face wasn’t the smartest choice. But honestly, the way things have been going lately, losing my shot at a scholarship due to an idiotic, self-inflicted injury would just be icing on the fucking cake that is my life.
I resist the urge to press more firmly on the gas pedal. Some days, when I’m out for a drive alone, I’d like nothing more than to steer this truck right off the road, onto the sand, into the ocean. Let sea water fill up the cab slowly, let my limbs start to float. Wait until only an inch of air remains at the ceiling. Gasp at it like a goldfish yanked from his pond. Wonder whether the water is dragging me under or offering me deliverance I’m too blind to accept.
Jo would freak if she ever heard me say something like that out loud. Hell, she’d probably have me signed up for bi-weekly therapy sessions within the hour, so I could sit in a beige-on-beige “safe space” and discuss my feelings with a neutral third party observer. I might even attend, just to appease her. But it wouldn’t change anything. No therapist in the world can fix all the shit that’s gone wrong in my life these past few weeks.
Neither can Jo. That’s why I haven’t told her about any of it. If I did, it would only put her square in the middle of a situation highly prone to going sideways. Because she’d do exactly what she always does — make my problems her problems. Attempt to fix it. And get herself hurt in the process.
I can’t let that happen. I’d rather have her hate me than see her damaged by the fallout from my family implosion. After all she’s done for me, after all we’ve been through… she deserves a life untouched by emotional shrapnel. Even if that life doesn’t include me anymore.
At the next intersection, I glance over at her. She’s still ignoring me, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. Loosed from its braid, it blows around her face, rippling like sand dunes on a windy day.
God, she’s beautiful.
God, she must hate me.
I should be happy my plans to push her away are working so effectively. But I’m not happy. Just the opposite. The prospect of losing the best thing in my life has opened up a bottomless pit inside my gut. Each moment we’re at odds gnaws a little more into my stomach lining. And there’s nothing I can do to make it better.
Creating some distance between us is the smartest option. The only option. But now that the ball is rolling, I can’t help second-guessing myself. I can’t