Page 128 of How You See Me
I climb in, adjust the seat until my feet reach the pedals, and buckle my seatbelt. My fingers are slick on the key as I turn it.
Nothing happens.
It’s a sign, my panicked brain insists. A warning. The universe trying to save us both from this terrible idea.
His raspy voice tells me to do something, but I can’t move. Can’t process the words.
“Josie,” he tries again, a little stronger this time.
“Mmm?”
“Push the brake,” he says gently. “It won’t start unless you push the brake.”
Oh. Right.
I reach for his hand, needing the connection, the reassurance. He squeezes it back, and that one small touch is all it takes to dull my nerves.
“The traffic is light,” he says, then swallows hard. “Just go a speed you’re comfortable with until we find a gas station.”
With a nod, I reluctantly let go of his hand and try again. This time, the engine roars to life under me as if to say,You’ve got this.
And for the first time, I believe it.
???
Somehow, I merged onto the highway like I haven’t taken a twelve-year hiatus from driving. It wasn’t as terrifying as my overactive brain promised it would be. Luckily, musclememory took over. I guess once you learn how to balance gas pressure with existential dread, the process sticks.
Thanks to my high school requiring Driver’s Ed and a teacher who helped me after school, I got my license at sixteen. I didn’t get it for freedom—I got it for Jordan. I wanted to be ready when he needed his. But since we couldn’t afford a car or insurance after I aged out of foster care and became his guardian, I never had a need for a license outside of an ID. Until now.
The first few miles are jerky as I adjust to the feel of the van. Hayes groans, clutching his stomach with every bounce.
“Sorry,” I squeak for the third time.
“You’re doing great.”
My slow pace earns me a few angry honks from drivers that zip past, but I stay focused on the road. After a while, I work my way up to the speed limit and get used to the van’s quirky rhythm. The old wooden steering wheel feels oddly comforting in my hands. Kind of like holding history—and now, a piece of my own. Driving the van may be even easier than the go-kart—smoother and more forgiving.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Hayes.
“Like I’ve been hit by the semi-truck that honked at you.”
“He must have thought I was hot.”
“Hmm” He opens an eye in playful judgment. “Guess he’s smarter than I thought.”
An upcoming billboard promises a gas station in five miles. “We’re close.”
“Good.”
By the time I merge onto the exit ramp, my heart is hammering—in a good way. I’m proud of myself. I didn’t panic. I didn’t quit. I drove and did it well.
Rolling to a stop at the pump, I cut the engine. Hayes shifts to get out, and I grab his arm.
“Don’t even think about it.” I collect my purse from behind his seat. “You rest.”
He grunts but settles back with a nod.
“Any requests?”
