Page 108 of Final Drive

Her eyes flick toward the house.

I don’t have to look. There’s a shadow in the front window that I’m pretty sure is Jackson. The curtain in the upstairs hall moves. Somebody has suddenly found a reason to stand at the kitchen sink.

“They’re all watching us.”

“They’ve been watching us since February.”

Her mouth twitches.

There she is.

It’s the first real thing I’ve seen on her face all week that isn’t exhaustion or the flat, careful expression she’s been wearing since the story broke. She pulls on the helmet and climbs onto the bike behind me.

“Drive.”

Ray’s is twenty minutes out on the county road, past the last streetlight and another three miles into nowhere. The sign’s been missing the same three letters since my freshman year, so technically we eat at Ra’s Ho Dogs. I’ve been coming here for three years and have never asked what happened to the letters.

The gravel lot is empty except for an old work truck with a ladder rack. The guy behind the window gives me the same nod he always does when we pull in. He doesn’t know my name. I don’t know his. It’s a good relationship.

We take our food to the picnic table under the buzzing fluorescent light. Reese makes it halfway through her chili dog before a glob of chili lands on the inside of her wrist. She doesn’t notice.

“You brought me here after the gala,” she says.

“You had chili on your sleeve that night, too.”

“I was wearing a very expensive dress.”

“With chili on it.” I hold out a napkin. “Wrist.”

She looks down. “Shit.”

She takes the napkin and wipes herself off, but when I go back to eating, I realize she’s staring at me.

“What?”

“This.”

“Very specific.”

“This thing you do.” She crumples the napkin between her fingers. “You’ve been doing it all spring. I need something and somehow it’s already in your hand. If anybody else did that to me all the time, I’d probably throw a chair at them.”

“Gray does it.”

“Gray gets threatened with chairs regularly.”

“Fair.”

She smiles, but she’s still watching me, waiting for an actual answer. I finish the last bite of my food before I give her one.

“I’m not figuring out what you need, Reese. You tell me.”

“When?”

“Constantly.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You’re just usually about four hours behind on realizing you’ve done it.” I wipe my hands on a napkin and lean back against the table. “I pay attention.”