She hesitated. “...I don’t know. Never?”
“Exactly,” I said, walking backward toward the front doors like I had a spotlight on me and a theme song playing in my head. “I dare you to remember how to have fun. Just for one lunch break. What’s the worst that happens? You laugh? You smile like you mean it?”
That got her. I saw it in the flicker of her expression—something warm trying to push past the fog.
“Live dangerously,” I added, shooting her a wink. “Have fries.”
Outside, the sun was obnoxiously bright, which was exactly how I liked it. The Ferrari—orange and completely over-the-top—was parked in my usual spot, practically humming with ego. I walked over and popped the passenger door open with a theatrical bow.
“Madam,” I said. “Your carriage awaits.”
She stood there on the curb, arms crossed. “You know we still have class.”
“Sure. But we also have freedom, gasoline, and my impeccable playlist.” I shot her a look, lowering my voice slightly. “Let’s ditch. Just this once. Let’s go be stupid for an hour. Or two.”
She was quiet, and when I looked at her—really looked—I saw it again. That sadness. Big green eyes, too heavy with something I couldn’t name. Something old. Something she’s been carrying alone.
And I hated it. Hated that I couldn’t fix it. So I did what I do best.
I distracted.
Then she said, “Okay.”
It hit me like a left hook I didn’t see coming. “Wait—really?”
“Yeah.” She stepped toward the car. “Let’s go be stupid.”
I blinked, stunned for a beat. I wasn’t ready for that yes.
But I wasn’t wasting it. I waited for her to climb in then closed the door after her. After, I rushed around to the driver’s side, heart beating a little too fast. I slid in, fired up the engine, and the Ferrari growled like it was just as hungry to escape as we were.
We peeled out of the parking lot like two kids running from something we couldn’t name.
The hum of the engine settled into a low purr as we hit the open road. I snuck a glance at her. She leaned her head back against the seat, while she wound a bit of her hair absently around one finger. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it’d been since she let herself do nothing. Just breathe.
The silence stretched. Comfortable for a second. Then it turned weird.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to work out how the hell to talk to her. She wasn’t like other people. You couldn’t always poke and get a reaction. You had to wait, gently, like coaxing a stray animal to eat from your palm.
I cleared my throat. "Hey," I said, eyes still on the road. "What do you want to do?"
She turned her head slightly, brow creasing.
"I mean," I continued, a little faster, "what doyouwant to talk about? Where doyouwant to go? This is your detour, Frankie. You call it."
She stared out the window for a second longer, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—like I’ve cracked something, just a little. Not a smile yet. But maybe. Just maybe.
My phone buzzed in the center console.
Edward.
I glanced at it. My gut clenched. I don’t answer. Not now. Not today. Answering would mean dealing withhim, and worse, dealing with the thing he's doing—the thing withher. With Frankie’s mom.
I shoved that thought down hard and kept my eyes on the road.
“There's a little place out past the lake,” she said suddenly. “Kind of ridiculous. Bright chairs, milkshakes bigger than your head.”
I grinned. “Say less.”
