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My ankles wobble.
I’m pretty close to Henry’s towering height, butugh.His pace is brutal. These killer heels were not meant for trekking through a dark parking lot with a broken-hearted former model.
At least we’re heading in the direction of his car.
That’s good.
It means I’ll be off my feet soon.
It also means I can take the keys from Henry, sync my phone to his speakers, turn my break-up playlist up to volume one hundred and sign our hearts out to the lyrics we memorized in the past.
Unfortunately, my hopes are dashed when Henry opens his trunk.
I stop beside him, noticing the determination in his eyes.
“What are you doing?” I sign. He keeps acting like a possessed zombie as he searches his trunk, so I roll up my sleeves and sign with bigger movements. “Henry,answerme.”
He ignores me and keeps raking through the junk in his car until, finally, his eyes light up. Wrapping his fingers around an object, he brandishes it in front of me.
My jaw drops.Why does he need a baseball bat?
Turning so sharply, I feel the wind he creates like a commercial fan blowing in my direction, Henry storms through the parking lot. His head is bent down and he’s scanning every vehicle there.
Pressing two fingers to my throbbing temple, I shuffle behind him. Maybe he just has to stalk up and down the parking lot a bit. Let off some steam.
You know that’s not what he’s doing.
Okay, fine.
Even if he’s looking for Fart-wad’s car, he won’t find it. There are so many fancy vehicles here. Cody Bolton has an impressive friend group. It’s highly unlikely Henry will be able to locate…
Henry freezes.
I do too.
The car’s right there. Shiny platinum rims. Tinted windows. Custom paint. The logo is mounted proudly on the hood, telling everyone in the world this is money on wheels.
We found it. We confirmed that jerk of a boyfriend is stupid but loaded.
Good for him.
I hope he loses all his money in a bad investment.
I hope he has to sell his car for parts.
I’m about to tug on Henry’s shirt and insist we go home when my best friend swings the bat over his head. A tear drips down his face and his mouth opens in what must be a roar of pain as he drives the bat down over the windshield.
I cower instinctively, lifting my hands over my face in case glass goes flying. The bat makes impact. A giant dent expands into tiny spiderwebs of damage. The lights on the car flash on and off.
My hearing aids pick up a mishmash of painful chaos. I yank them out so they dangle to my shoulder and, thankfully, everything goes silent.
Henry.
I wrap my arms around my best friend’s bicep, squeezing tight. He raises his hand, lifting my fingers with it, and drives the bat down over the hood this time.
A scream balls in my throat, but I swallow it down.
Henry’s chest is heaving. Giant pumps.