Predictable.
And then later, when he might’ve been able to hear it, there were other things to survive, the slow art of living to relearn, and the simplest reason of all—to put down roots. I’ve been in love with Jack my whole life, but aside from that wild night, he never seemed to want me back. I believed I’d die with that night in my heart. A secret that didn’t matter.
Except, now it does. Because everything has shifted, and I’m standing in the rain with a dead car and a heart that knows love doesn’t weather half-truths forever.
A car pulls up behind mine.
A Golf GT. Black, of course. Tyres that aren’t bald and an engine that purrs like a dream.
Skylar gets out, hood up to the rain and comes to where I’m standing. “You think we can jump it?”
“Maybe.”
His gaze shifts to my delinquent car and I wait for him to move to his own to fetch the jump leads he carries like any responsible citizen who knows their way around an engine. Thenhe snaps it back to me and his grey eyes sharpen. “When did you last sleep?”
“On the water.”
“Last night?”
No. The night before. But I’m not in the mood for Skylar to remind me that I shouldn’t be driving when I’m this tired. So I say nothing and endure his scrutiny. Look away as he delivers his verdict.
“I’m not starting that shit-can if you haven’t slept in a hundred fucking days. We’ll come for it tomorrow.”
Skylar’s even harder to argue with than Mal. He reaches into my car and swipes the keys. Then he goes back to his own and slides behind the wheel.
I’m slow to follow, still at one with the rain. By the time I reach Skylar’s car, he’s scowling like his lover.
“You look like shit,” he tells me, his northern accent thickening with the harsh words.
I ignore him and shut my eyes, breathing a slow inhale of the sun-warmed eucalyptus scent Skylar carries no matter how cold he tries to be.
We’re old friends.
He’s tearing into me because he cares.
“Sol.”
“What?”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for my dad.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
Skylar rolls his car out of the lay-by and onto the country lane. He drives faster than me and fatigue has me nauseous before we reach the main road. Unless I really was sick earlier and not just a hot mess.
And he doesn’t answer my question. He turns his music up instead. Metalcore. I don’t usually mind it, but it grates on me as Skylar guns it down the A road, driving like an outlaw biker instead of an A&E nurse. Which tells me he’s annoyed, even if I couldn’t gauge it from side-eyeing his profile.
“Sorry I got my wet clothes on your seats.”
Skylar cuts me another savage scowl. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Give a shit about how I’m feeling when you’re the one who needs it.”