We don’t speak until the bus stops at the corner. Then we climb off and start down the block.
“Is Preston at your house?” Royal asks, glowering at the truck. “Or did he give you the Escalade?”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“It matters,” Royal grits out.
I sigh and force myself to give him what he wants, still clinging to the hope that he’ll get bored if I submit to his every demand without resistance. “He let me borrow it,” I say. “He takes care of me—of us. Mom, too. He pays our rent, and our bills, and buys us groceries.”
“Why?” Royal asks, his voice guarded, careful.
“Because I’m his whore, okay?” I say, throwing my hands up.
Royal visibly flinches. “You’re fucking him?”
I let out a huff of disbelief. “Is that what you want to hear? Yes, he fucks me. You know that. You’ve seen it.”
“I don’t know what his dick looks like,” he snaps. “I knew he sent the videos to fuck with me, but I hoped it was someone else in them.”
“Nope, just me and your worst enemy. But really, Royal, why does it matter? You’d never have let your brothers fuck me if you were going to do it again, so it’s really none of your business who or how many I add to my body count. My pussy is no longer your concern.”
“I get it,” he snaps.
“How do you think I got all these new clothes, this new look?” I ask, knowing I’m poking the beast but unable to stop myself. “Why else would a man do anything for a woman, right? You should know that. Buy a girl a steak dinner, you get to fuck her in the ass, whether she agrees or not. Except here’s the difference. Preston doesn’t make me beg for scraps. I didn’t ask for any of that. He just did it. Because he’s a good person, Royal. And no matter what you do to me for daring to sympathize with a Darling, you won’t convince me otherwise. You’ll only convince me that you’re not.”
I storm ahead of him down the block, fighting back tears. Part of me wants to turn back, to make sure he’s not going after Blue, who got off behind us. But I’m barely keeping it together when all I have to worry about is myself. I can’t protect even one more person. Sometimes I wish I was like her, that I had an Olive to love and care for, someone who came first and who loved me just as much. But right now, I’m glad I don’t have to be responsible for anyone else.
I stop at the truck and take a few deep breaths until I’m under control. I hate that Royal has this effect on me, that he can make me feel anything at all. I liked being numb. What I said about Preston is true—he did do all those things for me. But the kindest thing he did was let me be numb, not force me to face all this ugliness that I can’t deal with right now. It’s too much. It’s all too much. I’ve never felt so frustrated, so helpless. I just want it all to go away, and he made a safe space for me to do that. Out here, there’s no way out.
“Get in the car,” I say when Royal reaches me. “I’ll give you a ride back to school.”
“I can walk,” he says.
“In this heat? Don’t be stupid.”
“I have practice in this heat every day.”
“Then why aren’t you there?”
“Because I’m here,” he says, like it’s that simple.
I don’t have an answer. I’m too tired to argue. I just climb in the truck and start the engine. Preston texted today asking me to bring it back, anyway, and if I go to Faulkner, I can ride the bus. I don’t need it anymore.
“I should return this before you wreck it out of spite,” I say. “Do you want a ride or not?”
Royal looks like the last thing in the entire world he wants is to climb in the vehicle with me. He’s glaring at the truck like the very sight of it makes him sick. “Let me drive,” he says at last.
“Whatever.” I sigh and climb over the console into the passenger seat. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I repeat the words over and over, my new mantra. If Royal wants to wreck the truck, I don’t care. If he takes me outside town and ties me up in the swamp again to die, it doesn’t matter.
He lifts himself up into the driver’s seat and closes the door. For a minute, we just sit there in silence, the air conditioner blasting. Then Royal pulls out onto the road and drives back to FHS. Neither of us say a word. He parks next to the Rover in the mostly empty parking lot, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing,” I say truthfully. “There’s nothing to say. Just go.”
He turns to me, those dark, hypnotic eyes threaded with so much emotion it makes me recoil. “You said you didn’t want an apology.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “You think words are going to fix this?”