“Hey Blondie, want to take a road trip?”
Chapter Twelve
Julie
Itoss the last couple sweaters into my suitcase in a heap and slam the lid shut with a little more force than necessary. I pause.
I can leave them like that.
I’m fine.
This is fine.
I absolutely can’t leave them like that.
Cursing under my breath, I open the suitcase back up and fold the sweaters into perfect squares before closing the lid and zipping it shut.
Muffled laughter has me turning towards the bathroom where Molly is standing in the doorway with a hand over her mouth, very clearly laughing hysterically.
I side-eye her. “I could have left them like that.”
Molly just laughs harder. “Jules, I love you, but there is no universe where you leave sweaters in an unfolded tangle and close the suitcase. I don’t know what possessed you to take this road trip with the sexy quarterback, but you’re still you, even though you taking two weeks off means I’m a littleworried you were temporarily abducted by aliens who did experiments on your brain.”
“What Molly said.” Hallie comes strolling into my room, a bag of peppermint Hershey Kisses in hand, Emma following closely behind.
“Come on, Hal, that’s my last bag—you couldn’t pick a different snack?”
The stash from my December supermarket sweep usually lasts until Easter, but since my kiss with a certain football player, I’ve been stress eating.
She just shrugs, hopping up to sit on my dresser in a move she knows drives me insane. “I like them too.”
Emma reaches her hand into the bag and grabs a couple. “Same. Anyway, you’re leaving for two weeks, so you won’t be needing them. Why are you leaving for two weeks again?”
“What Emma said.” Molly flops on my bed, rolling over onto her stomach. Resting her chin in her hands, she kicks her legs up behind her. With her pink leggings and striped socks, she looks like a teenager at a slumber party.
“You’ve been changing the subject every time we bring it up for the last week. Not that I’m opposed to some alone time for you and the hot quarterback, but leaving town for two weeks with a guy you barely know is so unlike you, it’s not even in the same universe as you.”
All three of my friends, plus Ben, and even my parents, have taken turns asking me why I’m leaving with Asher for two weeks, and I haven’t given anyone a concrete answer. I can’t even summon a decent lie. They don’t know about the kiss or the text messages, and they definitely don’t know about the panic attack. To them, this is coming out of nowhere. As far as they know, Asher stopped by my office last week after he met with Jeremy and Emma and asked me if I wanted to go with him. They’re not wrong, but they’re not exactly right either.
It’s been a week since I agreed to go with Asher on his off-season road trip to Boulder. And I use the term agree very,veryloosely. It was just a panic attack. No one died. I got through it. There’s no reason for him to be making such a big deal over it. I ignore the voice in my head telling me there was nothingjustabout that panic attack. That, for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, I actually did think I was going to die, and the only reason I got through it is because Asher wrapped his big, strong quarterback arms around me and talked me through it.
The voice in my head is an asshole.
Once it was over, Asher wanted me to tell my friends and I refused. Then he told me to call Ben, and I refused that even harder. When he asked me if I wanted to take a road trip, I just laughed and turned back to the papers I was sorting through. But Asher didn’t move from where he was sitting on the edge of my desk before casually dropping his bomb.
Come with me on my road trip to Boulder, or I’m telling Ben about your panic attack.
His habitually cheerful face was deadly serious, and that departure from his norm had me sitting up straighter. It was his quarterback face. The face that leads a team of men to victory on the football field week after week. The face that got me to agree to a week in the car with him and a week at his parents’ house when I have only spent a grand total of five hours, two weeks’ worth of text messages, and one afternoon mid-panic attack with him in my entire life.
I’d be lying to myself if I said it was just the quarterback face that got me to agree.
I’m worried about you.
I don’t want you to be alone.
You don’t have to be alone.
Let me help you, Blondie.
