"I'm a good driver," I add quietly. "Never had an accident."
Rex stares at the keys in his hand. The seconds stretch.
Then he tosses them to me.
I catch them one-handed. "Thanks."
He doesn't respond, but his hand hovers near the driver's door handle. He glances at me, then at the door, then back at me. Like he's trying to figure out if he should still open it for me even though I'm driving.
I snort. "Get in the car, Rex."
He gets in the car.
The seat's pushed all the way back for his stupidly long legs, which means I can barely reach the pedals. I spend thirty seconds adjusting everything—seat, mirrors, steering column—while Rex sits rigid in the passenger seat, folded because he doesn't even think to fix his seat, or he doesn't care.
I pull out of the parking garage smooth and easy. Signal. Check mirrors. Merge.
Rex's jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.
"You can breathe," I offer. "I've been told it helps."
"I'm breathing."
"You're not."
He exhales through his nose. Long and controlled, like he's doing some kind of combat breathing exercise. His hands are pressed to his thighs. Every time I change lanes, his fingers dig into the fabric of his jeans.
I don't take it personally.
I drive exactly the speed limit. Use my signals. Leave plenty of following distance. Brake gently. It's the most boring, responsible driving I've ever done in my life, and I've driven for old ladies at charity events.
By the time we hit the foggy forest road leading to the tower, Rex's death grip has loosened. Fractionally. His fingers are still tense, but they're resting on his thighs now instead of trying to bore through them.
"I was sixteen," he says, his voice quiet and detached.
It takes every inch of my focus to not visibly react and startle him into thinking we're going to go off the road.
We've never discussed this before.
I don't say anything. I'm afraid if I do, he'll stop talking.
"It was a day like this," he continues, almost murmuring, staring straight ahead at the winding forest road. "Misty. Foggy. Typical. We were out on a joyride, Nash and me. Nash was driving."
I wait, barely daring to breathe.
"Another driver ran a red light. Nash couldn't have seen it coming. He was speeding, and maybe that was part of it. Maybe it wasn't." He takes a long breath to steady himself and slowly exhales through his nose. "He veered and lost control of the car. We went off the road and into the woods. The car wrapped around a tree. Nash… Nash was never the same. Mentally. Emotionally. And I…"
Rex never finishes the sentence.
The fog thickens around us and I drive in silence, navigating the curves carefully, giving him nothing but steady hands and a quiet car and the absence of pressure.
After a full minute, Rex exhales and his head tips back against the headrest.
"I don't know why I told you that," he mutters.
"Because I'm driving and you can't escape?"
He blows a puff of air through his nose, and for a moment, I think I've gotten through to the old Rex.