The scratch. The folded-over airbags. The inevitable fact that his stupidly expensive, brand-new convertible had been ruined.
He sat there, paralyzed, for an extremely long time.
Then, in a slow, hollow tone, he muttered, "This car is not insured."
I blinked. "I—wait. What?"
Ethan combed his hair. "It's new. I just purchased it. I haven't yet acquired the insurance."
I glared at him. "Are you kidding me? A billionaire's son with no car insurance?.... But at least your dad can pay for it."
"No, he can't," he said almost in an instant.
Something about the way he said it made me hesitate. There was no hesitation, no excuse, just immediate dismissal.
"Why?" My voice dropped a little.
Ethan tensed. "It's complicated, okay?"
"HOW?!"
"JUST—DROP IT!" His voice was cruder than before.
And like that, my stomach flipped.
The air inside the car felt denser. Chilled. My fingers clenched into a fist, the back of my mind trying to recall a memory—something terrible, something I didn't want to remember.
The reason why I hated demons.
But I suppressed it before it materialized.
Ethan was not him. This was not then.
I pushed the air out, my grip on the seat relaxing. "Fine," I muttered. "Your rich-kid deep, dark problems are your own."
Ethan massaged his temples, exhaling. "Great. Glad we are on the same page."
There was a silence between us, broken only by the crunch of the leaves where the bunny had disappeared.
Then Ethan, finally, exhaled, looking at his wrecked brand-new convertible like it had taken from him something valuable.
I waited.
And waited.
And—
"Okay," he finally said, “I can’t tell my dad about this. So, I’ll just… figure it out.”
I squinted at him. “Figure it out? That’s your grand plan?”
"Yeah." He waved a hand like this was the simplest thing in the world. "I’ll raise the money myself."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
We both knew he was lying.