She straightens up, tossing a thick wool blanket over her shoulder, tapping her chin while pretending to think. “There’san arcade. A bowling alley. A used bookstore that smells like incense and cats. Want a tour?”
“Sure,” I say, but I’m not sure I actually care about any of those places. I just want to be near her.
She grabs her keys off the table and throws me a look over her shoulder. “You driving or am I?
“Depends,” I say, following her toward the door. “You gonna judge my playlist like Tate does?”
“Absolutely.”
We all pile into her car two minutes later—Haven behind the wheel, me riding shotgun, and Tate grumbling as he folds himself into the backseat like a reluctant origami project.
“Fuck,” he mutters, wedging his knees against the back of my seat. “What is this, a clown car.”
Haven snorts as she starts the engine. “It’s a Honda, not a hearse. You’ll survive.”
“Debatable,” he gripes, adjusting his legs and shooting a dramatic glare out the window. “If I get a cramp and die in the backseat, tell my subscribers I went out doing what I loved—suffering.”
She taps the steering wheel in time with the beat, mouthing lyrics to a song she swore she hated earlier. Her seat’s reclined slightly, hair pulled up in that way that makes her neck look kissable, and I catch myself wondering how I ever lived before this exact moment. She catches me staring, and winks. I look away.
She grins. “Hope you’re hungry. I’m taking you to my favorite taco truck. Best carnitas fries in town. No contest.”
We pass a mural that makes her sit up and twist toward the window, and I swear, just the way she moves makes my chest tighten.
“That one’s new,” she says, pointing at a spray-painted galaxy over an abandoned warehouse. “They do midnight paint battles out here sometimes.”
“You ever join in?”
“Nah,” she giggles. “But I make great commentary from the car.”
God, I could live in this moment. Just her voice, her laugh, the way she steals the silence like it always belonged to her.
We don’t get back in the car right away after we order.
The three of us linger under the faded string lights hanging above the taco truck’s gravel lot, the air thick with grill smoke and whatever Spotify playlist the guy behind the counter has on shuffle. Haven leans against the passenger side door, sipping a bottle of Jarritos and pretending not to be watching the way Tate’s still circling the chalkboard menu.
She bumps my shoulder lightly with hers. “He’s been staring at that thing for five minutes.”
I nod. “He’s trying to manifest a burrito that punches back.”
She laughs bright and unguarded and it curls through my ribs like a hook. I want to bottle it, keep it, live in it.
“You good?” I ask, quieter this time, toeing a loose rock on the pavement.
She tilts her head toward me. “Yeah. Why?”
I hesitate, then glance toward Tate again, making sure he’s still occupied. “Just… checking. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one trying to catch my breath.”
She watches me for a second then takes a slow sip of her drink. “You ever think maybe we’re all out of breath, just hiding it better?” She shrugs before continuing. “We’re in this weird limbo where everything’s new but also moving a thousand miles an hour. It’s not just you.”
My mouth goes dry. “And… is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
She pushes off the car, walks a half-step closer until her shoulder brushes mine again. “Depends,” she says softly. “Are you the kind of person who likes knowing where you’re going before you press the gas?”
“I’m the kind of person who doesn’t want to crash.”
She doesn’t pull away. “Then don’t.”
I look at her. The neon light catches her cheekbone, makes her eyes shimmer like heat mirages. Suddenly I’m so aware of the fact that I’d follow her anywhere, even if I don’t know where we’re going.