He scrunches up his face a bit. “Definitely not. Too far from the office.”
We walk up to black Tesla model X, and I laugh as he loads our bags into the trunk.
“Of course, you would drive a Tesla,” I mumble, crossing my arms.
“What’s wrong with a Tesla?” He opens my door before going back around to the driver’s side.
“Why are you being nice to me?” I ask, watching him from my position next to the car. “You helped me with my suitcase. You offered to drive me home. You just opened the door for me…” I shift my feet.
He props his elbows on the roof of the Tesla, giving me a tired smile. “Why are you questioning it? I’ll probably wake up tomorrow and remember how aggravating you are.” Then he climbs in and shuts the door, so I do the same.
We pull out of the parking garage and loop around the airport. Anderson turns some music on—a Band of Horses song I haven’t heard in years calledNo One’s Gonna Love You.I look out the window as we merge onto the 405.
“Are you old, nostalgic, or a little of both?” I ask, gesturing to the stereo.
“This is a great song. It’s one of my favorites. I saw them live in Sweden when I went to visit some relatives a few years ago. Best show of my life.”
I squint as I study him—sitting upright, his hand on the gear shift, his jaw hard with concentration.
“Did you grow up in Sweden?”
He shakes his head. “We moved to L.A. when I was seven.”
I nod. “I didn’t realize you did so much yoga, by the way.” We’re both quiet, and I resign myself to the fact that I’m about to compliment Anderson Møllen. “I find it commendable that you don’t eat meat.”
I see him smile slightly. “You’ve never done yoga a damn day in your life, have you?”
I burst out laughing. “Nope. Not once.”
He shakes his head and sighs. “There’s a place I go to in Hollywood. You should come with me.”
I drum my fingers against the hand rest, laughing. “No, thanks.”
“I think you’d like it. Maybe it’ll help you to be more present,” he adds.
“I can live in the present,” I retort.
“You’re constantly on your phone.”
“There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a good book.”
“Whatever you say, Hermione.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You like it.” His eyes meet mine briefly—so briefly. “The world is passing you by, you know.”
I scowl. “You’ve obviously never been so engrossed in a story that you read it every chance you get. Your breath hitches when the twist is revealed, and you can physically feel your heart speed up. My breath catches in my throat when I read a beautiful sentence. Maybe if you had that experience, you wouldn’t be making so much fun of me.”
“I do read. A lot. But I do it before bed, or when I’m relaxing. Not during every waking moment. You’re like a zombie, walking around with that giant screen in front of you. Like you’d rather live in a fictional world than the real world.”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh, because he’s so spot on that it almost physically hurts. I average two-hundred books a year. I use reading as an escape—as a way to take my mind off the past, because if I think about those things for too long, I get sad.
And I hate being sad.
I glance down at my phone. It’s the pro size, but I wouldn’t call it giant. “Excuse me, my phone is normal-sized.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
