Page 7 of The Rebound
“Ask me again what I’m thinking about.”
He looks surprised. “Are you flirting with me?” he asks instead.
“A little.”
“You’re good at it.”
I’m pretending to be good at it. I’m pretending to be cool and suave and not start giggling like that girl in the parking lot, that girl who I now completely understand, by the way.
He smiles when I don’t respond, jumbling my thoughts even more. “Is that it? I thought you were flirting.”
“I am!”
He laughs. “You’ve got to keep it moving! You’ve got to be quick.”
“I’m tired.”
“That’s a terrible excuse.”
“Well, you flirt then. Since you’re so confident.”
“I don’t think you’re ready for that yet,” he says seriously. “It’s pretty powerful stuff.”
“Now who’s— Jesus!”
I jump as a car horn blares behind us, sending my heart racing in a way that can’t be good for my health.
It sounds again, angrier now, and Luke twists in his seat, giving whoever’s behind us the finger as he shifts us into gear. “I’m going,” he calls, as we stutter forward through the now green light.
Barely a second later the other driver overtakes us before pulling rapidly away, the engine roaring into the distance.
“Dickhead,” Luke mutters, glaring after him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“They’re going to hurt someone. That’s— You sure you’re okay?”
I nod as he checks the rearview mirror, almost like he expects there to be a line of traffic behind us. “Areyouokay?” I ask. He doesn’t look okay. He looks rattled, still a little mad.
“Yeah. It’s late,” he adds, as if that explains everything, and before I can respond he presses down on the accelerator and the world outside blurs by again.
Still feeling a little skittish, I force myself to turn back to the window as the forest gives way once more to fields, the odd farmhouse and then, before I know it, the graveyard marking the boundary of the village.
It’s not the most welcoming of sights and it’s only made weirder by the tourist sign outside.fáilte go clonardit says in flowing Irish words. Welcome to Clonard. They didn’t include thethanks for stopping by. here’s where we keep the dead people.but that’s probably for the best.
We zoom past both it and the elegant church where my parents were married and, just like that, I’m back.
Home.
Except it’s not my home. Not anymore.
I start to panic as the roads grow increasingly familiar, even in the dark. In five seconds we’ll pass the pink house with the butterfly sculptures on the wall. After that, the playground and then—
“Left.”
“What?”
“You can take a left,” I say, louder now as I direct him the long way around the village. Luke looks at me, confused, but I’m not ready to see everything else just yet, so I simply point to the turn up ahead until he thankfully does as requested, driving down the older narrow road. The only time I talk now is to tell him where to go until we eventually reach my street and stop in front of a small two-story house.
