Page 93 of Ignition

The rest hung in the air, unspoken, but leaden.

I dragged a hand over my face, hard enough my fingers left marks.

“Have you talked to my dad about this?”

He let out a booming laugh, entirely disproportionate, then fell silent.

The vice around my ribs pulled taut, until I craved a cigarette. My grip tightened and relaxed on the wheel as my mind raced, searching for a way out and finding none.

“I see no reason we can’t solve this between us.”

Which was a veiled threat, if I’d ever heard one.

We ended the call with false invitations and well wishes on both sides, and his not-so-subtle “Alice might still be up at this hour.”

I wanted to scream.

My body slumped in the seat and my head tipped back against the headrest, both hands clawing at my hair.

What the fuck was I supposed to do? Phone her, continue the charade? But what about Mia?

“Shit!”

My growl zigzagged in the cabin, until I cracked the window and lit up a cigarette.

I’d either have to end it with Mia—or she’d somehow have to be okay with it. Which was a tall order in and of itself, even discounting the flare of nausea kicking up my throat.

The smoke flooded my lungs, then curled in the car, until I could only glimpse slivers of my harried reflection in the rear-view mirror.

The nicotine had barely dulled the tension by the time I pressed the number I still hadn’t saved, face buried in my hands.

Half an hour of pleasantries later—and a good amount of scolding for not having called—my thumb was swiping through the movie listings, because apparently Alice had turned movie enthusiast. Or someone had tattled I was, and she was trying to impress me or some shit.

The ashtray slowly filled, and I blamed my honest-to-god stomachache on how much I’d smoked, while every fibre of my being said this was something else altogether.

Every time I spotted a promising title, I saved it for later, but it wasn’t Alice’s face that swam to the forefront of my mind.

I’ll sleep on it, I told myself and peeled out of the parking lot, smoke clinging to my sweater, bones buzzing with nervous energy that had nowhere to go.

I drifted into a fitful doze full of nightmares of chasing something that kept disappearing around the corner, something with suspiciously familiar floppy brown hair.

Each time I followed at a run, rounding the corner myself, I stumbled upon a manic brunette with a crooked, wide grin. She’d amble towards me, dress dragging on asphalt with a whining, metal-like sound. I’d stumble back, fall, and she’d lunge, teeth sharpening, eyes glinting—and I’d wake up in cold sweats.

Shadows marred my face when I blinked a bleary eye open, considered skipping breakfast and sleeping in, seeing as it was Saturday. But Mia was going to be in the library afterwards, like clockwork, and I badly wanted to see her face, suspecting it might help me decide.

Or make it even harder, I didn’t know.

The clock tower chimed ten when I pushed the large glass door open, bees swarming in my chest as I ignored the looks vying for attention and scanned for one figure in particular. A few early morning stragglers dotted the ground floor, huddled in groups or studying on their own, voices low and sleepy.

And there she was. Tucked in the corner, with a leg folded under her, surrounded by books. The light from the window spilled over her in a way it had no business doing, making her look like something out of a dream.

I ignored the urge to pinch myself, the buzzing of my phone in my pocket, and the agreement we’d avoid each other in public as much as possible and ambled towards her, the pull in my chest sharpening with every step, until I dropped down in the chair next to hers.

She held up a finger and kept scribbling, adorable frown on.

She was wearing the same soft white sweater she’d worn the first time we kissed, and the image was already tearing at my composure.

My body arched in, ostensibly so I could peer over her shoulder at her notes, but the slow smile spreading on my lips as her scent washed over me betrayed me.