We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,36

make in a year.” He pauses. “More like two years, now that I think about it.”

I swallow hard. “No pressure.”

“JoJo.”

I look up and meet his eyes. His steady gaze reminds me so much of Archer, it makes the breath snag in my throat. “Yeah?”

“Cars are made to be driven. Not to sit idle, waiting around for someone to finally appreciate them.”

Miguel strokes his hand gently across the tan ragtop. Unlatching it with care, he folds the cloth back into place, exposing the convertible’s creamy, camel interior. The wooden steering wheel. The gear shifter, sticking out of the floor.

I whistle appreciatively, excitement sparking to life. I’ve only driven the Porsche twice before, and never beyond the gates of Cormorant House. The circular driveway provided a perfect makeshift learning course for lessons last year — first in Miguel’s beat-up truck, then with my father’s fleet.

Archer was infinitely annoyed that I mastered manual transmissions so much faster than he did. Ever since we got our licenses, he’s wanted to sneak the Porsche out for a clandestine drive up the coast. If he knew I was about to do it without him, he’d be apoplectic.

Not that I care.

“For what it’s worth,” Miguel says suddenly, drawing my attention back to him. “That same advice applies to human beings, JoJo.”

“What?”

“You can’t spend your days waiting for life to happen to you, safe in a weatherproof hangar. You have to get out on the open road. Crank the windows down. Let the wind mess up your hair. Maybe end up on a route you never saw coming.” He winks playfully. “Then again, I’m just a handyman. What do I know?”

“Miguel—”

But my words fall short; he’s already walking away. “Get going now, kiddo. You don’t want to be late for school.”

Miguel was right — it is a beautiful day. Warm and sun-drenched, the air rife with the promise of summer. I take the winding route to Exeter Academy, following the Essex Coastal Scenic Byway through salt marshes and small inlets, past pebble beaches and crystalline coves. I shift gears, letting the Porsche fly when I reach a secluded straightaway. Above all, I try not to think about Archer.

At this, I fail miserably.

I can’t help it. This is the first time in a decade we haven’t carpooled to school. In our younger years, Flora would drop us off together. Even after I got my license last summer, I never considered asking my parents for a car of my own. Why would I, when I had Archer to take us everywhere in his truck?

How naive of me to think there’d never come a day when his passenger seat is the last place on earth I want to be.

The Exeter parking lot is already filling up when I arrive. I pass row after row of shiny new cars — one black-on-black Ford F-150 conspicuously missing from their ranks — and finally locate a free spot in the very back, by the track that loops around the baseball field. In the distance, the first bell rings, a ten minute warning till the start of class.

I’ve barely shut my door when a massive yellow Jeep Wrangler screeches to a stop in the space beside mine. Ryan Snyder ambles out of the driver’s seat, the grin on his face somewhat undermined by the nasty shiner around his eye.

“Sup, Valentine.”

“Ryan!” I gasp. “Your eye!”

“Eh. Looks worse than it is.” He grins wider. “You still think I’m handsome, don’t you?”

A blush spreads across my cheeks. “Um. We should probably head inside. The bell’s about to ring... “

He chuckles as he walks to my side. Before I can protest, he promptly removes the stack of textbooks from my arms.

“Oh! You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His blue eyes are practically sparkling in the morning light. He glances down at the books. “What do we have here? AP Biology, AP Chemistry, AP Physics… Someone’s an overachiever.”

“More like the daughter of overachievers.”

“Parents have high expectations of excellence, huh? I can relate. I’m a triple-legacy at Yale. Never had much of a choice about my college plans. I think my first onesie had Handsome Dan on the front.”

I steal a peek at him as we cross the parking lot. Ryan Snyder may look like a J. Crew model in that dark green blazer, but he’s clearly got brains lurking beneath his chiseled beauty. You don’t get into Yale on familial connections alone — even if you are a third-generation shoe-in.

“I’m sure your parents are proud of you.”

“I guess.” He shrugs.