Page 6 of Shut Up and Drive

He raises an eyebrow at my terrible comeback. “You can call me whatever you want.”

“Oh, I’ve got several things I’d like to call you.”

A cocky smile spreads across his face, and it stirs a whole slew of ingredients inside me. Most of them create a recipe for disaster, but one or two of them—the most dangerous of them—bubble up from deep down. I don’t like it. At all. I have to keep him farther than arm’s length, so I set a hard boundary right out the gate.

“And don’t call me ‘Fina’ either.”

“But I’ve always called you that,” he argues.

“Back when we were close, sure. But not anymore.”

He frowns as he studies my face. The stubborn will to win any competition we have between us fades, and something real forces its way into the conversation.

“I’m not sure I can break that habit,” he says softly as his eyes burrow into mine.

My heart stumbles off its normal rhythm, and I hold my breath to reset it. My feet grow heavy and begin to melt into a puddle of goo, and I worry my legs and arms will follow suit. I straighten my shoulders to counteract the gooey feet. I will not allow Thane to get to me. Yet, if I’m being completely honest with myself, he has just dusted off the old space inside where he’s lived all these years. Everything is still in its place—the furniture under canvas drapes and the piano gathering cobwebs—but it’s there, just the way he left it. In the months after he disappeared from my life, I never left that space. I wallowed on the settee like a damsel with a case ofmelancholy. I wandered from window to window, staring for hours at nothing. I sat at the piano, too hurt to play anything but songs dripping with sadness. But as time rolled forward, I forced myself to block out the sunshine that lit up those windows. I forced myself to cover everything that reminded me of him—the settee, the piano—then I roped off that part of my heart and refused to walk past it again. I wanted to set the whole thing on fire, destroying my feelings for him once and for all, but I could never bring myself to do it. I stood on the edge of that decision with a lit match in my hand more than once, but the only thing I ever had to show for it was burnt fingers. Thane will always have a place in my heart, but I’ll go to my stubborn grave before I admit it to anyone.

As quickly as his vulnerability appears, it’s gone, his mask set firmly back in place. “Besides, I live to irritate you,Pigeon,so the nicknames stay.”

I exhale loudly, forcing away old feelings. “You’re exasperating, you know that?”

“Only to you,” he replies.

I turn my focus to the tin can car in the driveway.

“Apparently our moms have a vendetta against us.”

Thane holds up his mom’s handwritten note. “I even got a very strongly worded letter,” he says with a laugh.

“I got one of those too, but it’s shredded in the trash.”

“You’re madder about this than I am, it seems,” he says, leaning against the car.

“Of course I’m mad! This is all your fault!” His stupid grin does nothing but piss me off further. “And you think this isfunny?I wasn’t even going to come this week, but my parents acted like it was life or death. Had I known it was becauseyouwere coming, I’d have stayed in the city.”

“Ouch,” he says, feigning a wounded chest. “I thought we were friends.”

“We were,once.And now I’m stuck driving in a pocket-sized death trap with The Master of Disaster for the next twelve hours!” My heart morphs from its clumsy stumble to a full-on gallop, and my chest heaves to keep up with it.

He laughs. “Master of Disaster? Really?” He circles the passenger side and peers through the windshield. “Besides, it’s not ‘pocket-sized,’ it’s…fun-sized.Like you!” He punctuates his insult by booping my nose, and I want to tear off his arm and beat him with it.

“It’s smaller than a seat in coach would’ve been,” I mumble.

“Then maybe you should’ve taken the deal. Door number two was a Zonk.”

I cross my arms. “You think?” I say sarcastically. “Thanks for pointing that out, Wayne Brady.”

I pull my phone from my leggings pocket and check the time. “If we’re driving down there, we’re already way behind schedule. We can still make it there tonight if we speed and keep pit stops to a minimum,” I say, starting back toward my parents’ front door.

I hold up the key fob, hit the trunk button, and watch Thane lift the back hatch. “Throw your stuff in. I’ve gotta grab my bag,” I shout over my shoulder.

I wheel my suitcase out the front door and down the driveway. Thane throws his duffle bag into the trunk and turns to help me.

“I’ve got it,” I insist, heaving unsuccessfully at my suitcase.

Thane stands back against the car and watches as I struggle to fit my suitcase into the tiny trunk.

“Stop watching me,” I huff. “You’re making it harder.”