Page 34 of Heavy
“I… I didn’t know how bad it would get.”
“You could have gotten yourself killed, you know that?”
Notsomeone, but me. I could’ve gottenmyselfkilled.
I nod and ask, “How did you know what was happening?” He tuts and puts the car into reverse. “W-Wait your bike.”
“It’ll survive.” I can tell he’s trying to sound neutral, but his anger is starting to bubble just beneath the surface. “Jesus, do you not understand what—”
“I’m sorry for what my mom said.” I cut him off while leaning as far away from him as possible, feeling the cool window against my temple.
“I don’t give a fuck what she said, answer me. Do you understand what you did was stupid?”
“Yes. I’ve not had one in so long, I didn’t know it would inebriate me like that… I swear.”
He huffs but doesn’t say anything. Silence rings loudly in the small space between us. The streetlights become less frequent as we find ourselves on the highway, and the darkness in the car has me feeling more confident.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
No sound comes from him, not a huff or grunt, just silence.
“How did you know what was happening? I thought you had left…”
The leather squeaks under his grip. “I waited just around the corner for you to leave. I planned to follow your ass back to the cabin. Then I saw you speed off and nearly run a red light.” He pauses, and when I look at him, the red glow from the dash illuminates his face, making my heart catch in my throat. The clench of his jaw sharpens his features, and I know I shouldn’t, but the urge to touch him is overwhelming—to feel the roughness of his five o’clock shadow under my fingers.
Then there is the slut in me that wants to follow the command written over his eyebrow and feel it somewhere else.
“I drove up beside you and tried to wave you down, but you were gone. I’ve seen panic attacks, I knew what was happening. You got lucky that you hit green light after green light, and there weren’t many people on the road because it’s dinner time. Fuck, Cal…” He shakes his head in disappointment, and it hits me like a punch to the chest. I don’t want him to feel that way about me, and it's strange to admit it. The last thing I deserve is for him to feel anything other than hatred for the things I’ve done.
Looking away from him, I stare at my hands that still are slightly trembling. I’m silent because I don’t want to make excuses. I’ve not had one since I was eighteen and have been so good about not getting worked up.
Suddenly, I hear a click, followed by a rush of warmth as he turns on the heater. When I glance over at him, he’s focused on my hands or my legs—I can’t quite tell which.
“I’m sorry.” I should thank him, but it feels better to apologize. It isn’t even just for what happened tonight, but so much more.
He growls. “Don’t.”
Swallowing, I rub my hands down my thighs.
“What helps?” His question catches me off guard. “With the attacks.”
I already feel much better, though the only sensations coursing through me now are cramps and restlessness. I’m not going to share that with him, though; I want him to help me.
“Talking.”
“Then talk.” He changes lanes and shifts the seat back slightly. This car wasn’t designed for someone his size. He’s cramped in here, and I feel even worse than I did just moments ago.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I can tell by the throaty groan he lets out that he doesn’t want to, but he curtly replies, “Sure.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
The slow turn of his head to me, and the look of surprise, has my heart doing stupid leaps. I can’t feel this rush of need for him, it’s wrong forsomany reasons.
Though, maybe it’s why I want to run right for it, because it’s forbidden.
He hesitates to answer me, but it’s like he remembers what I need and says, “Maroon. Yours?”
