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“I’m sorry about that.” Charlie glances over, the rictus grin she wore after backing into the poor, poor pedestrian finally sliding off. “He’s probably okay, right?”

“Sorry about hitting that guy, or about laughing at the fact that you hit him?” My voice creeps up a pitch. “What the hell is wrong with you, Charlie? I thought I knew you better than this.”

I never pegged Charlie for the type of woman to drive over a human and barely hold back laughter over his groaning form. And it’s only adding to my anxiety for the unfortunate man, bringing it to a boiling point.

“Do you think he ran away because he doesn’t have health insurance?” She shrugs, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

“I think we should try finding him,” I say for the hundredth time.

“Nah. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Is she… still smiling?

Concern for her trickles through me. “Are you okay? Like, do you feel cold? Are you experiencing?—”

“I’m not in shock, June.” Her voice is flatter than a can of La Croix left open in the car all afternoon, and it makes me wince.

Denial. Charlie is absolutely, one hundred percent in shock. Has to be. No way any normal human could be unshaken after that. Even I’m in shock, and I didn’t hit the guy.

“Uh-huh.” My voice is calm, even. “I think you should let me drive. Huh? How about that? Would it make you feel safe if I drove?”

Charlie narrows her eyes, shooting me a look I recognize. The one from tense department meetings where our resident mansplainer tries taking over the agenda.

“Will it makeyoufeel better to drive?” she asks.

No. I donotwant to drive after that. All I want is a double-shot margarita, hold the margarita part, and to call the cops. My lips purse.

“I didn’t think so.”

My grip on the bar tightens and I can’t help but feel Charlie’s voice is… off. A coldness in it. A tone she uses on idiots in meetings, or students who cross the line in lecture, and I usually love it. But it’s not a tone she’s ever aimed at me. Like this is somehow my fault.

Which is entirely ridiculous.

“You know what? Iwouldlike to drive. Seeing as how this is my truck, and you just ran someone over with it.”

“You going to be able to let go of the Jesus H. Christ bar long enough to get out of the car right now?”

Tilting my head, I glance up to where I’m white-knuckling the plastic. “Huh, is that what it’s called? I always thought it was ‘Jesus, take the wheel,’ not, ‘Jesus, hold the handle.’”

Charlie snorts out another laugh, and heaven help me, I join her.

The palms and beach scrub on either side of the highway give way to a glimpse of sparkling ocean. The smooth water is serene, and my eyes close, momentarily allowing the surf to take away some of my anxiety.

“We’re almost there, anyway,” Charlie says, breaking my small moment of peace. “Tell you what, if it makes you feel better, I’ll call us an Uber after we eat and drink, my treat. And I’ll pay to get the blood cleaned off your front fender, too.”

My mouth falls open, turning to the back of my truck. “Wait, there’s blood on the fender? When did you even look at the fender?”

I hadn’t even considered possible damage to my car. No, being the normal one of the two of us, I’d been too caught up worrying for the man on the ground cursing me out. To busy focusing on the fact she hit a guy holding a gun?—

“Oh my god.”

“Are you gonna puke?” Charlie shakes her head, like this is a common occurrence. Like she often sees people puke after running over fellow humans.

I blink at the odd thought. Why would she have experience running over people?

Charlie is a professor of Texas history; she is my friend. She is not a serial people-runner-overer.

She’s just trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. That’s all.