Page 18 of The Worst Kind of Promise
My breath trembles, and despite feeling sick to my stomach, I shake away the gray storm cloud hanging over my head. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re right. It’ll be easier on everyone if we stay friends.”
Faye hesitates with her mouth parted, like the word is foreign to her. “Friends.”
Traffic begins to disperse as the tension between us follows suit, and I force myself to focus on the road ahead instead of the disappointment clogging my arteries. Physically, she’s close to me, but emotionally, she’s a universe away.
I’ve never been a smart decision-maker. I’ve slept with girls I had no business of involving myself with. I’ve made dumb decisions during games that cost my team wins. I’ve said terrible things that I never should’ve uttered to another person.
But this…this has to be the worst mistake of my life.
JUNIOR MINTS DON’T FIX EVERYTHING
FAYE
“Faye.”
I bristle and nuzzle my head into the hard interior of the car, sluggishly trying to find the least painful angle to rest my neck. I don’t know how people sleep in cars. They’re so uncomfortable, and the rocking movement is giving me motion sickness.
Shaking.
The car’s shaking.
Either a sinkhole is opening up under us, or someone’s trying to rouse me from my non-REM sleep. I’m not sane enough to be awake right now. Mentally, physically, or emotionally. I’m running on two Red Bulls, a bag of Life Savers Gummies, and some questionably flavored beef jerky.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so…brazen with Kit. Maybe I should’ve waited to discuss our arrangement. I feel bad, even though I know I did the right thing. He hasn’t said anything to me in hours, but that could also be because I’ve been pretending to be asleep. I want to go back to easy banter with him. I want to forget all this awkward tension between us. It makes me want to strangle myself with my seat belt.
“Faye.” That incessant voice, coupled with an impatient inflection, stabs at my ears.
I crack one eyelid open to test the waters, and when I see Kit’s face occupy my entire line of sight, I freeze. Even drenched in darkness, his handsomeness glimmers like the silver lining of a cloud. His breath is minty fresh, and there are notes of masculine undertones in that bergamot scent of his, making him still smell fantastic after eight hours in a car.
“I got you some Junior Mints,” he says, shaking the white box for emphasis. “I didn’t think you’d want a gas station hot dog.”
He’s right. In general, gas station food that’s not packaged or manufactured has no business being sold for public consumption.
Hunger echoes in my belly. “How did you know I liked Junior Mints?” I ask, accepting the candy from him with a grateful smile.
He deposits the rest of the snacks—except for a Kit Kat—in the back of the car, among my scattered luggage. “You were eating them at Hayes’ initiation party,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“That was over four years ago.”
Kit unwraps his chocolate, breaking the spine of the Kit Kat. “Don’t you remember the catered desserts we had? You could’ve had any dessert you could imagine, yet you stuck with your half-melted purse mints.”
Halfway to popping said mint in my mouth, I wait to toss it down my gullet. “Is that the first impression you had of me?”
A roguish grin flourishes over Kit’s lips. “Oh, yeah. I was wondering who invited the old lady to our rookie’s party.”
“Hey! I’m not an old lady. Carrying candy around is a hip thing to do nowadays.”
“First off, only old people say ‘hip,’” Kit argues, not bothering to close his mouth as he chews. “Second off, you could’ve at least picked a more appealing candy.”
“More appealing? What’s wrong with Junior Mints?”
“What’s wrong with them? You’re telling me that when you go to the movies, you intentionally buy Junior Mints? Like, not as an alternative because they’re out of everything else?”
I clutch them to my chest like they’re my own flesh and blood. “You know, you’re very judgmental for someone who I saw eat a Hot Pocket after it fell on the ground.”
“In my defense, that was a well-earned Hot Pocket. And it was the last one. Of course I still ate it,” he exclaims, narrowing his eyes at me, though he’s doing a piss-poor job of disguising his smile lines.
I place the hard, smooth outer shell on my tongue and crunch down on it, relishing the gush of mint over my tastebuds. “I’m just saying that I should be allowed to enjoy my ‘old person’ candy in peace if you’re allowed to eat food off the floor like a dog.”
