Page 9 of Ominous: Part 1
More than those shallow facts, he knows the way I feel alien in my own brain.
Dangerous.A guy like this could make me falter. Return me to where I was, that moment I barely remember when I got suspended, then had to live out the rest of the semester with my head down while everyone whispered around me.
But I push it aside, getting ahead of myself as I usually do. I focus on the now. The drive. The upcoming drop off.Real things. Not fantasies.
I contemplated having him leave me at the gas station half a mile from my house. I wanted to protect something of my dignity, because seeing my dusty road through his eyes—watching the LED headlights illuminate Mom’s pale green van, Reece’s battered truck, Sebastian’s Mazda 6 with a busted taillight, and my old, turtle-like Sentra, all crowded together on the cloud of dirt that serves as the driveway to the trailer—seemed like too much.
But he would know I was hiding something. Worse, he’d understand I was self-conscious.
I’d rather pretend I’m proud of my home. Or, at the very least, unaffected by it.
When he makes the final turn onto Castle Lane—the irony is not lost on me—then pulls into the driveway of the first trailer on the left, his car bumping over the uneven ground and spackling of rocks Reece intended to use to make a proper driveway, he doesn’t pretend to love my place.
He doesn’t remark on the gray siding, the screen door I know sticks; he doesn’t even try to spin the yard into something worthy. And itdoeshave a decent yard around back. Hardly any grass grows in the front, but there’s a lot in the rear, and beyond it, forest stretches on for miles. I’ve lost myself in there some afternoons, and it’s my favorite part of this place.
But instead of any of that, edged out at the end of the driveway by the rest of my family’s vehicles, he says after turning down the volume, with some sort of wonder in his words, “Wow. You have a lot of cars.”
And even though it could be a way to make me feel less shitty about what I don’t have and what he probably does, I survey the driveway. Four sets of wheels.
I guess we do.
Still, I only make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat as I undo my seatbelt, savoring the swift zip of it across my body before it lodges firmly in place somewhere near my head.
“Thanks for the ride.” I glance at the clock in the car. He must have driven fast, and I either didn’t realize or didn’t care, because I have three minutes to spare. I reach for the silvery cool handle of his door, grateful it opens on the first tug without some complicated child lock shit, and I swing one foot to the ground, the car very, very low.
“I can take you home any day.” He sounds almost hopeful.
I keep staring at the trailer, the single light on in the living room I’m to flick off when I get in. Mom will be trying to wait up for me to ensure I’m safe, and I feel a little guilty, knowing after cleaning three houses probably the size of Eli’s, she’s got to be exhausted.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, trying to keep my tone even. I think he has wrestling practice, preseason workouts or something; I’ve heard him talking about it in the hallways. And besides, I don’t stay after every day, and some nights I work at the gym. Not many during the school week, but occasionally. He probably doesn’t know about that job. Or jobs in general.
I know I’m judging him, but I can’t seem to stop because I feel like there should be some catch to being offered his kindness. Like he’s going to demand a blowjob the next time I see him or something. It’s not as if I haven’t fantasized about it, but I’m not giving head for rides home. I don’t suppose I’d be very good at it, anyway, considering I’ve never done it before.No ride for you today, that was sloppy.
I almost laugh at myself, but instead I put another foot out, scooting to the edge of the leather seat, the scent, alongside his smell of the sea, invading his clean car.
“No, really.” There’s something like impatience lining his words. “If you need a ride, anytime, just… well, you’ll see me around, right?”
I look at him over my shoulder. “I don’t know. You pretended I didn’t exist for nearly a month.”
His hand is still on the gearshift, his other around the bottom of his steering wheel. But at my words, he looks perplexed. “I thought I told you why. You’re unapproachable.” His eyes glance over my entire body, and I think I might melt his seats, as hot as I am. “But tomorrow, I promise, I’m doing it anyway. Approaching you.” His cheekbones lift with his smile. “Have a good night, Eden.”
I let myself drink him in two seconds longer than I should. Then I’m out of the car. I’m slinging my bag over one shoulder, slamming his door closed with my free hand, a little harder than I intend to, when a searing, bright and violent pain lances up my middle finger.
“Fuck!”The word rips from my mouth, low and hushed as I snatch my finger from the door I just closed it in. My backpack slips from my shoulder and to the dirt as spots pop in front of my eyes, and I’m clutching two fingers in my opposite hand, squeezing tightly to stop the flow of blood and therefore, the pain.
It tapers off almost immediately, a dull throb underneath the Band-Aid I already have wrapped around my papercut. I don’t know if my pain tolerance is high, or if I’m going to lose the tip of this finger because I’m squeezing it so hard, but my breathing evens out in a few seconds.
Until.
Until I realize Eli is right beside me, his car dinging to let him know he left his driver’s side door open, little lights glowing inside.
“Let me see,” he says, reaching for my hand, and I don’t want to let go of it, the way I’m suffocating my own circulation, and I don’t really want him to touch me, but he does it anyway.
His skin is cold, and I flinch with the feel of it as he pulls my hand, tucked close to my body, toward him.
“Really,” I try to fight him by stiffening my muscles, “it’s fine.”
His eyes come to mine in our tug-of-war with my hand, staring up at me through his long lashes. Amusement ticks at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me see,” he says again, his words flat.
