Page 907 of One More Kiss

He grabbed his phone, and a playlist popped up on the car’s media screen.

“What is it?”

He messed with some settings on the screen. “This, Tate, is a soundtrack for damaged kids.”

An odd giggle bubbled up my throat. “A what?”

He just kept smiling like an excited toddler. It was so fucking adorable it hurt. “I got it all. MCR, Simple Plan—because obviously, they were the kings of pity music back in the day—and Mendes cause he’s currently sad, so it’s relevant.”

“You’re crazy.” I laughed again.

He looked at me with a serious expression. “It’s great, and you know it. Also, I’m going to add you. That way, either of us can add music to it.”

We drove along, and between the smile I couldn’t wipe from my face and his chill aura, one would never guess we were two people driving to bereavement therapy. It was an odd feeling to be happy.

We sat at a red light, waiting for the song to change. Suddenly, “Hand Clap” by Fitz and the Tantrums came over the speakers, and I looked at the screen before looking over at him. “What the hell? This is like the opposite of sad.”

“True. But it’s really fucking good.” He reached over, turning it way up, and then he yelled over it. “Life needs intermissions, Tate! Let it happen!”

I laughed, and he rolled down our windows. The light turned green, and he hit the gas. We zoomed through the city, driving way too fast, but I didn’t care. I wanted to feel the music’s bass in my veins and the wind in my hair. I wanted to feel alive.

When we pulled up to campus, he parked outside the psych building, but he didn’t kill the engine. He just sat there, gripping the steering wheel and biting his lip.

He turned toward me. “Do you really want to be here?”

“What?”

He nodded over at the building. “Here. Therapy. Cause I was having fun. And the idea of going in there seems like a bit of a buzzkill.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Do you want to ditch this pity party?”

My eyes went wide. It felt wrong. “Are we…allowed?”

“We’re adults. And this is a voluntary group. We can do anything we want.”

“Okay...” I drew the word out, unsure.

His face grew serious. “I mean, we don’t have to. If you need this, I won’t take that from you.”

But it didn’t feel like he was taking anything from me. If anything, being with him in his fancy car, listening to our music like a couple of teens from 2006, felt more like therapy than sitting in that room.

“It feels like we’re ditching,” I said under my breath.

“And you were never a ditcher, were you?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if people could hear us.

I shook my head.

Then he looked around, leaned in, put his hand on my knee, and said, “I won’t tell if you don’t….”

I burst out laughing, and he grinned before throwing the car into reverse.

Fifteen minutes later, we’d pulled into the parking lot of Lincoln Park and chose a patch of grass as far away from screaming children and barking dogs as we could get. It was a warm day, but in the shade under the giant maple tree, the temperature was perfect.

I was lying on my sweater, staring up at the clouds. “It just feels like there’s a brick on my chest. Like a cinderblock. And the air in the room feels more like water that’s too thick to breathe.”

Out of my peripheral, I saw Daniel turn his head toward me. “I get that. Anxiety is the worst because it’s literally just the side effect of being—”

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