Page 10 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

And, naturally, it had no roof.

Because, of course, it didn't.

We are talking about Ethan-the-rich-kid-demon here.

The convertible glided to a stop so slick that it should've been on skates. The tinted window slid down in slow motion as if it were condemning me for poverty.

And then, there he was.

Ethan.

Wearing sunglasses.

Even though the sun was barely out.

Of course.

"Finally," he said like he was the one who'd suffered. "I've been looking for your house all morning."

I blinked. "Are you—are you serious? Ethan, I have been standing here for almost an hour."

"Yeah, because your house is impossible to find," he said as if it were my fault for not living in a castle with neon signs that read, 'Clark Lives Here, You Moron.'

"It's not hard to find," I said. "It's a house. It's numbered. It's right here."

Ethan waved a hand. "Whatever. Get in."

I stared at the roofless monstrosity. Hesitating.

This car cost more than my entire existence.

This was not the type of car that you simply climbed into like some sort of peasant.

But then I remembered one very important thing.

Joy would never let me hear the end of it if I chickened out last minute.

I sighed and slid into the seat.

And immediately regretted it.

1.The seats were leather. But probably not called leather—probably some fancy name like artisanal organic cow silk.

2.Ethan wasn't buckled up.

Now, I may be socially anxious, shy, and generally bad at human interaction, but if there is one hill I will absolutely die on, it's safety regulations.

"You're not wearing a seatbelt," I said.

Ethan, still fiddling with his ridiculous touchscreen dashboard, didn't even look up. "Yeah, I don't really do that."

I stared at him. "I'm sorry. You don't do seatbelts? Like it's some optional extra?"

"It's cool," he said languidly. "I have fast reflexes."

Oh. Okay. Well. As long as he had fast reflexes.

I twisted in my seat to face him squarely.

---