Page 95 of Loverboy

I IMAGINED UNBUCKLING my seatbelt and opening the passenger door. I’d seen it a dozen times in films—people tucking and rolling onto the road in action sequences. I’d convinced myself that I could handle a few broken bones and a case of road rash. Surely it couldn’t be that bad. I’d survived worse things than jumping out of a car.

But I was glued to the spot. Jasper had one hand on the steering wheel, the other in my lap, our fingers intertwined. I brushed my thumb nervously over the back of his hand, trying to remind myself that if he could do this, I could do it too.

I had to believe that even if Mom didn’t approve, he’d never let me go. With a brain like mine, that was fucking hard.

We pulled into the driveway, and I instantly felt sick. My heart rate slowed to a crawl, and I was sure I was about to vomit. I released myself from the confines of my seatbelt and shoved the door open, getting out of the car too fast for Jasper to give me another pep talk. I gripped the side of the car with my freshly gauze-wrapped hand, while the other searched my pockets for cigarettes. Everyone knew the best way to stop raging nausea was to light one up.

My thumb trembled over the lighter. I struck it several times, only getting sparks.

A bad omen.

This was a horrible idea.

I heard the driver’s side door shut and saw Jasper rounding the front of the SUV, his hands stuffed in his pockets, the epitome of calm. He stopped right in front of me, leaning down and producing his own lighter. My panic dissipated as I focused on him, lighting my cigarette and plucking it from between my fingers. He stole a drag and then pressed it back between my lips.

“You’re doing so well.” His lips brushed my ear as he got even closer.

Heat pooled low in my stomach, and I nearly choked on smoke.

“You didn’t throw up in my car,” he added, giving my shoulder a condescending pat. “Off to a great start already.”

I thought about murder.

“You’re so helpful,” I gritted out.

“You know what, I am.” He placed a hand over his heart, grinning smugly.

Talking shit to each other had a way of keeping me grounded.

I smoked the rest of my cigarette hastily and then crushed the filter under my shoe on the pavement. Jasper moved to rest a hand on the small of my back and urged me toward the front porch, every step harder than the last.

You almost couldn’t tell that Mom smoked indoors. The smell of a home-cooked meal wafted through the house, accompanied by the sound of movement in the kitchen just past the living room.

The two of us shuffled around in the entryway, taking off our coats and hanging them on the rack. When I bent over to take off my shoes, I noticed a familiar pair tucked neatly on the shoe rack.

I shot back up.

“Are you kidding me?” I whisper-yelled.

Jasper locked the door behind him. “Take your shoes off.”

I could handle one thing at a time.

Dinner with Mom? I could survive it. Dinner with Mom and Blane?

“I can’t.” I grabbed his arm, looking past him to the door.

“Take your shoes off, please.” His voice was soft.

We stood there for a beat, staring at each other intensely. I kept my eyes on him, furious, as I knelt on the floor and began untying the laces on my new Converse slowly.

“What up, fam?” Blane’s familiar, upbeat voice called out from behind.

Fam. Family.

The word punched a hole in my confidence that this whole thing would go anywhere but south. I wanted to curl up into a ball. Instead, I persevered, setting my shoes next to Jasper’s and standing. I turned, giving the best smile I could muster.

“Hey,” I rasped.