Page 265 of Rush

“You really do look beautiful tonight,” he says, voice softer now.

“Right back at you, Brody.” I gesture to his outfit. “Who let you look this good?”

His hand slides down the wheel. “You did.”

The heat between us doesn’t go anywhere—it just shifts. Curling low and quiet. Waiting.

He taps the wheel again.

“You nervous?” I ask

He glances over, amused. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If this is an actual date or not.”

I smirk. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

We drive for the next hour exchanging first date questions. Favorite colors, songs, foods. Mundane things we had completely glazed over.

I’m not surprised that his favorite color is black or that his favorite food is Thai—although I already knew that. What does surprise me is that he learned to cook some dishes while working in Thailand.

The second the Mustang turns the corner, I know exactly where we are.

Neon lights flicker down the boardwalk, the old wooden coaster slicing the skyline. Coney Island stretches out in front of us—quiet in the off-season.

“No way,” I say, eyes wide as he pulls into a weather-worn lot near the boardwalk.

He looks smug. “You like it?”

“I love it. This is...not what I expected.”

He parks and cuts the engine, the silence settling between us like it has weight.

“I haven’t been here in years,” he says after a beat. “There’s this place up near the pier. Burgers, chili fries, milkshakes. My dad used to bring us—before he got sick.”

His voice goes quieter, like it doesn’t want to carry too far.

“I was nine. I remember thinking it was the best day ever. Before…you know. Everything started to turn.”

I glance at him as he stares out the windshield, hands still on the wheel. The dash lights light his face from underneath, and for a second he looks younger. Softer.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I had a day like that too. Last good one before the shitstorm hit.”

He looks over at me, waiting.

“My year twelve formal,” I say. “This guy asked me out—cute, played guitar, had that floppy surfer hair thing going on. He picked me up in his mom’s old Corolla, decked it out in fairy lights. Wore a tie. It was the sweetest thing anyone had done for me up to that point. I’d gone all out—hair, makeup, heels—the whole deal.”

“What happened?”

I laugh under my breath. “He ditched me halfway through the night.”

“Why?”