I polished off the last cookie, crumpled the plastic wrapper, and dropped it into the trash can. I exited into the garage and spotted Tasha at the steering wheel of her shiny silver Z4. Waiting for me. I liked that as much as I liked her gleaming car. I wondered if I played her little game whether she’d let me take it for a spin today.
I watched her head bob to music I couldn’t hear, just knowing it was some stupid pop bubblegum crap. In spite of myself, the corner of my mouth curved. She was cute when she was rocking out to pop bubblegum crap.
Last night I’d chuckled at her for listening to a One Direction song. Good thing I couldn’t talk, or else she would have been curious about how I knew it was One Direction. See? Not speaking wasn’t so bad.
Except when I had questions about her life. School. What turned her on—and not sexually, though, yeah, also sexually—but I wanted to know what she was into. What made her eyes go bright and her smile beam? There was a huge communication gap between us. Between me and everyone I knew, actually, but the one between Tasha and me bothered me most.
The sun was out, the spring day beckoning. Even guys like me were beckoned on occasion. Not so much by chirping birds as the shine glinting off that Beamer. Damn, but she drove a nice-ass car.
A minute and a half later, I had pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and slipped my feet into running shoes. I shut the garage door and climbed into the Z4’s passenger seat, adjusting it since my knees were currently under my chin. A soft giggle came from my driver. Tasha smiled prettily, her pink glossed lips parting ever so slightly.
She threw the car into gear, and as she backed down the driveway said, “You smell good.”
So did she. The whole car, actually. New-car smell intermingled with Tasha’s strawberries-and-flowers scent. The seats were buttery leather, the dash smooth wood dotted with black buttons with orange lights. I fiddled with the radio while she hung a left, then a right, before navigating onto the highway.
It was frustrating not knowing where we were headed. More frustrating watching her underutilize the fine automobile she drove. I mean, seriously. A hundred questions entered my head about everything from the alloy wheels to the suspension. Whether or not this baby had turbo. My skin itched from how badly I wanted to know.
Another pro of speaking,I thought as I chalked up an invisible hash mark.
“Yours?” I managed after she switched lanes. I knew the Z4 was new, but I had no idea if it was hers or if her father let her borrow it.
“The car?” she asked.
I pressed a button and an interior light came on. I clicked it off.
“My father bought it for me a month ago. I was scared to drive it at first, but I’m getting the hang of it.”
No she wasn’t. I winced as she ground a gear.
I shook my head and popped open the glove compartment. In it I found a brochure describing the seat color as “champagne.” There was also a steering wheel warmer. I leaned forward and flipped it on, then off. I saw a button for voice command on the wheel, but that was more of a hindrance than a feature for me.
“Help yourself,” she said as I poked more buttons.
I continued familiarizing myself with her unbelievably expensive vehicle while she drove.
“I don’t know everything this car does yet. But I did preset my radio stations.”
Of course she had.
I put the brochure away and slid my eyes to the speedometer. She was going sixty miles per hour. It was criminal to drive this car below eighty-five.
I licked my lips, preparing to speak. Moved my tongue around my palate once, twice.
“Wuh-where are we going?” Damn.
“I’m so glad you asked,” she said without looking over. She changed lanes, not as smoothly as I would’ve, and as a result the car jerked and wobbled. My heart thrummed. I couldn’t picture the accident exactly, but some part of my physiology remembered it. The wiggle of her car’s wheels on the road was enough to make my teeth hurt from a phantom impact. Made me want to ask her pull over and let me drive instead. Sitting in the driver’s seat would make me feel better, more in control.
“I’m super excited to try a few new things today with your therapy,” she said over the music. She smiled over at me and I rolled my eyes.
Yippee.
“Outdoor therapy,” she said.
Therapy. I hated that word. Made the vision of the bird with a broken wing persist. It had been bad enough when I was literally broken, but my bones had healed. To have her see me as mentally deficient was emasculating and frustrating to no end.
I huffed and glared out the window.
“I’m so glad you agree.” She’d handily ignored my grunt of dissatisfaction.