Page 34 of Wild Child
There are murmurings from the passengers, and the woman next to me cranes her neck to see past me and out of the window.
I turn my head to see what everyone’s looking at.
There’s a small truck riding alongside the bus. Not just any truck. The outside says Wild Taste Brewery and the crazy man hanging out the window, one hand on the steering wheel, is Quentin.
“What the…?”
He sees me, and his look turns to relief. His window is down and he’s saying something.
“Is he crazy?” the woman next to me says.
His head’s sticking out the window, and he’s keeping up with the bus. A car blasts its horn behind him trying to get past. “Yeah.”
“Charlie…” His voice is swept off in the wind, and I can’t hear the rest of his words.
“Is that you he’s talking to, love?” the woman asks.
Either I left something behind or he has something to say. “Yeah. It is.”
She looks excited. “You better open the window and see what he wants.”
I stand up and pull the window open. It only opens a crack, and cool night air blasts into the bus.
“Charlie, don’t go.” Quentin says.
If that’s all he’s got to say, then I’m not interested. There’s no point in staying if he’s never going to act on what’s between us. I scowl at him and shake my head. I’m not shouting out of the bus to tell him I’m not leaving.
“I’m an ass,” he says.
Which I don’t disagree with.
“I love you. And I want to be with you. Don’t go.”
The scowl lifts from my face, and my heart stutters.
“What did you say?” I call out the window because I have to hear it again.
“I love you.”
The woman next to me clasps her hands together. But it’s the last part I need to hear him say again.
“And I want to be with you.”
There it is. The promise that I need. I know he has feelings for me, but I have to know he’s going to act on them.
“Tell the driver to pull over,” he says. “You’ve got to get off the bus.”
“Pull over!” the woman next to me calls to the driver. I spin in my chair, and she gives me a wink.
“Pull over!” a balding man a few seats down calls down to the front of the bus.
The call goes down the bus until it reaches the driver. He turns in his seat and scowls at me. But I’m already marching down the aisle with my purse over my shoulder.
He pulls off the highway onto the side of the road, muttering about timetables and late service.
“You’ll need to get your own bag from below,” the driver says.
“No need,” I tell him. “I travel light.”
