Page 32 of A Taste of Vanilla

“No.”

“Good.” His voice is flat, but dangerous.

“Oliver,” Marley warns, leaning forward.

“I said good,” he snaps.

“You said good like you’re making a list.”

“I like lists,” he says.

“You hate them.”

“I like some of them.”

I reach through the window and touch his arm. Two fingers against his sleeve.

He looks down.

“I’m okay,” I say firmly.

It’s not true. I’m a mess. But it’s not entirely false either.

He looks me over carefully. “No, you’re not.” My lips quiver, and his expression softens by the smallest amount. “But you will be.”

Another tear slips over my cheek, and he sighs like the tear inconveniences him. Like it ruins the moment—because it does. He reaches through the window and hands me a napkin with the Saints & Sinners logo on it.

“I don’t have tissues,” he grumbles.

“Of course you don’t.” Marley rolls her eyes. “That would mean you have a sliver of nurturing instinct.”

He crosses his arms. “I brought gas.”

“And sandpaper.”

He ignores this, instead looking at me again. “Can you drive?”

I look at the dashboard. “I think so.”

“You’re not driving to Florida,” he says.

“I wasn’t?—”

He stares, and I look away. Marley pats my arm.

“It seemed like a better idea when I was moving,” I admit.

“That’s how bad ideas go. You’re coming back to Baltimore.”

I bristle. No matter how much I love Oliver, being told what to do right after a man just detonated my life is not pleasing.

He notices, his shoulders slumping. “Not because I’m ordering you to,” he says. “But because Marley is in your passenger seat, I’m following you in the truck, and if your car makes another weird noise, I’m pushing it into the harbor and buying you something that respects gas.”

I stare at him.

“That was almost supportive,” Marley says, impressed.

“Where am I going?”