Page 54 of Fighting

“You told me to wear sturdy footwear but to dress up. Does this work?” I ask.

I worry my lip, noting his casual outfit. I’m about to head in and change when he steps forward and grasps my wrist.

“Don’t go. If you change, I’ll cry.”

The tone brings memories of him begging in the bedroom flashing back, and I nod.

“Can I take the wheel?” he asks, lazily pointing at the green sports car.

“Can you driveyourcar? Um, yeah. That’s fine.” I scoff, trying to keep my lips from twitching.

He guides me to the passenger side with a hand low on my back. Always showing off his chivalrous side, he opens the door and waits for me to be seated before softly closing it.

Mateo is relaxedbehind the wheel. I’ve come to cherish these moments because he’s stopped poking me for information and is now focused on playing deejay. Today, we sing along—loudly—to his eclectic playlist.

When it switches to a hip-hop song about “stoners,” I retrieve my vape pen from my bag and wiggle it in his line of sight.

“This okay?” I ask tentatively.Stop testing him, a voice argues back.

Mateo nods nonchalantly before making a verychalantface. “You smoke around me more than I expected is all,” he says, his eyes quickly darting to me. “Not like it’s a problem. Just, surprising? You’ve always seemed so… put together…”

“I’m not put together?” I push back, my tone biting, betraying the mental claw sharpening. Is this ahere is the history of how racist that ismoment or amedical educationone?

I swallow down some of the hostility, but not enough, to disguise my tone as I say, “I see some shit at work. Then, I’m everyone’s emergency contact.”

Fuck, that sounded like a complaint.

Lifting my chin, I infuse an unnatural level of confidence directed toward myself and say, “Not that I don’t love what I do. And I’m really fucking good at it.”

Yeah, as long as it’s about someone else.That damn annoying voice is back, and the more time I spend with Mateo, looking for Caleb over my shoulder, the louder it gets.

Inhaling, I take in that unique mix of damp peat and spicy smoke that comes from heavy clouds and bonfires this time of year.

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to care,” I admit sheepishly while playing with the edge of my chipped nail polish.

He grasps the knob on the radio and turns the volume down.

“Someone like me, huh? What am I like?” His voice wavers as he asks, betraying insecurity behind the playful façade.

He’s been nothing short of vulnerable and kind, while I hide behind a wall. The wall he laid bricks in when we were teens, but that Caleb topped with barbed wire.

I gasp, taking in the rolling orchards and vineyards on each side of the road. Sometimes it’s easy to forget we’re so close to these farms. I shove the vape back in my bag, unused, and exhale.

Ready to move on, I turn the volume up again. “Oh, wait. Good song.”

In the back of my head, I add to the list of ways he’s responded any time there’s mention of him being less serious or intelligent. I don’t particularly want to care, but it’s starting to weigh on me.

The air between us remains charged, grinding my frayed nerves.

“We still need to name the kittens. Want to figure that out as we go on this mystery drive?” I ask, hoping he can read the gesture.

“Dope, let’s do it.” He shoots me a grin.

“Should we give them witchy names? The black cat could be Salem—like the show? Maybe the orange ones can be, um…” I’m trying, but this TV thing is really his domain.

“Nah, that kitten is no warlock,” he says. “He’s more of an artist. He’s a little trouble, a little snuggle. Sort of like you.”

Finally, he turns the car from the paved roadway onto a winding dirt path.

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