Vandy
The first twenty minutes of the drive are excruciatingly quiet, but without even having to ask, I know that he wants to focus. He’d seemed so cool at first, when I first got into the Jeep, but I can see it now—the tension in his hands where they grip the steering wheel at perfect ten and two positions, the way his eyes keep jumping to the side of the road, the tight, ticking muscle in his jaw as it clenches. His weird new stillness is in fine form. The top of his back doesn’t even touch the seat, he’s sitting so rigidly.
He’s wearing darker, casual clothes—a black hooded sweater pulled over a shirt that, from the looks of the collar, is soft and worn. He dressed for comfort and utility, but it’s maybe not working out for him.
His forehead sparkles with a fine sheen of sweat.
He waits until we roll to a stop at an intersection to roll his window down, and he probably tries to hide it, but I can tell he’s sucking in these little breaths of the fresh air. I can tell that it’s relaxing him.
But once the Jeep starts moving again…
“It’s better when you can feel the wind whipping around, you know?”
“Reyn, I can’t—” My voice is all choked, and now I’m the one sweating, eyes squeezing shut. “I can’t—the window.” He instantly rolls it up, no questions asked. Maybe he understands.
Softly, he says, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I fumble for the AC controls, and this time we both breathe relieved sighs when the cool air hits us. “That’s better.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
I can’t stop my mild laugh. “God, we’re a mess.”
I feel better when he grins, even though it’s still strained. “Hey, talk to me.”
I look over at him, confused. “About what?”
“Anything.” He grips the wheel tighter. “Tell me about this Thistle Cove drama.”
I realize that his silent focusing technique probably isn’t panning out as effectively as he’d intended. So I settle into my seat and start to tell the story of how the idyllic little town turned into a Lifetime movie complete with sexy school girls, illicit sugar daddies, and murder.
Ten minutes later, Reyn seems appropriately distracted. He’s no longer stick-straight in his seat, strangling the steering wheel. “Wait, you’re telling me that the coach was having an affair with his student—also his best friend’s daughter—and her father was like, the king of the SugarBabies online match-up site?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Yep,” I reply. “Oh also? The girl’s father? He was the mayor.”
“Damn.”
“Right?” I relax a little into my seat. “You know, I kind of wonder if that’s what Afton’s doing with her dad’s friend?”
He lifts a shoulder in a loose shrug, both hands still on the wheel. He’s been a very conscientious driver this whole time, even after he began relaxing. Eyes forward, hands steady, speed level. “It doesn’t sound like it. Whatever Afton’s got going on seems a little more passion-driven than an arrangement.”
“True,” I admit, although the thought of Afton with a guy that old still grosses me out. “You really never heard about that whole story?”
“We didn’t get much news at military school.”
“There was this whole episode about it on Crime Nation.” I shift in my seat, feeling a little embarrassed to admit my guilty pleasure, but I can’t contain my enthusiasm. “God, I love a good true crime story, and this one was so close by!”
His head tilts when he says, “Sounds like you just really like journalism. Like you’ve already found that thing you’re passionate about. Like your mom.”
“I guess.” I chew on my lip, thinking. “Although, my mom’s got a drive that I don’t think I could ever have. For her, it’s less about the story and more about the glory. I’d be perfectly happy if no one ever looked at me again.”
His forehead creases as he turns off the highway. Daylight is fading, and we need to get to the school before it’s fully dark to do a little recon. The small town of Thistle Cove is in the distance, the river on one side and thick trees on the other. My mind wanders back to the girls seeking affection and money from older men, back to Afton.
“You think she’s pretty,” I say suddenly.
His eyes jump to me and back to the road so fast that it seems involuntary. “Who?”