Page 45 of Unmanageable

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I grip the steering wheel, my rings clicking against the worn plastic. I love the silence of a night drive, but tonight, there’s a strange, electric restlessness humming under my skin.

“Hey,” Cash says from the passenger seat. His head is turned toward me, resting back against the vinyl headrest. “What’s your favorite color? And don’t give me some weird answer like ‘slate gray’ or ‘navy blue.’ What is it really?”

I glance at him, surprised. “Green. Like a dark, mossy green. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he murmurs. He purses his lips and continues. “What about your favorite movie? The one you watch when you’re sick and feeling miserable and don’t want anyone to talk to you.”

“The Princess Bride,” I say without hesitation, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I know every line. If you tell anyone that, I will personally ruin your contract negotiations next season.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he says. “What’s the exact order of your ideal day? If you didn’t have to answer a single phone call or look at a spreadsheet.”

A strange warmth blooms in my chest, expanding until it feels almost tight.

Of course, I’ve always loved compliments. But compliments are just a reflection of how the world sees you.

Questions are different.

Questions mean someone wants to know how your mind works. They want to see the world through your eyes, to understand the tiny, insignificant mechanics of your soul.

To me, curiosity has always been the ultimate love language. It’s an admission that you aren’t just a finished product to be admired; you’re a territory they want to explore.

I desire to be questioned. I want to be dismantled by someone’s curiosity, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to hide.

I shake my head when I realize I’ve been sitting silently for too long.

“Wake up at eight,” I say softly, keeping my eyes on the road. “No alarm. Just coffee that someone else made, a massive breakfast, a long walk where I don’t have to think about the glycemic index of anything, and read a book I don’t have to review for a client.”

“Sounds perfect,” Cash says. He shifts in his seat, turning his whole body toward me, one leg bent onto the cushion. “What was your absolute worst subject in school? The one that made you want to cry.”

I let out a soft laugh, but then I stop.

“Why are you doing that?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave. “Why do you ask me so many questions?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches the profile of my face, his gaze steady and entirely devoid of the usual playful humor.

“Because everyone else just takes what you give them, Scottie,” he says, his voice incredibly quiet. “They see the version of you that’s always in control, the one who fixes everything and has all the answers. I don’t care about the agent. I want to know you. I want to know the exact shape of your thoughts when you aren’t trying to protect anyone else. I want to know how your mind works.”

My throat feels dry. I keep my eyes locked on the white lines of the highway, because if I look at him right now, I might lose my footing entirely.

“It’s a dangerous neighborhood,” I whisper, trying to inject a bit of the old sarcasm into my tone, though it comes out breathless. “My mind. You might get lost.”

“Then let me get lost,” Cash says. “So. Which subject did you hate?”

12

Finnian O’Connell

“Finnian, don’t start with the dramatic sighs. I am doing three things at once.”

“You’re doing nothing at once because your phone is dead,” I point out, gesturing toward the black, lifeless screen sitting in the center console. “We’ve passed six motels in the last twenty miles that looked perfectly fine, Scottie. Why didn’t you stop at that hotel by the highway? It had a pool. It had a breakfast buffet.”

“Because that hotel was booked solid!” she snaps, her knuckles white where she’s gripping the steering wheel. “I had the reservations for the boutique place. I had them in the file. I don’t know if the cloud didn’t sync or if the system crashed, but they didn’t have our names. I’m trying my best to fix it.”

“Your best involves us driving blind through a dense forest in the middle of nowhere?” I glance out the side window, where the trees are pressing in close, casting long shadows across the road. “You’re the one who prides yourself on being ten steps ahead of the entire league. How do you miss an entire hotel booking? Were you too busy color-coding your highlighters?”

“Maybe I missed it because I’m doing the work of three people while you sit there and play air-drums! Maybe I’m tired of being the only one with a functioning brain in this citrus-colored van. If you’re so damn competent, go ahead. Take the wheel. Find us a five-star suite in the middle of a tractor pull. I’ll wait.”