Page 9 of On the Way to You

I was leaving Alabama.

I was going to Washington.

With a strange boy.

Whom I had just met.

Who admitted out loud that he’s crazy.

He fired up the engine, the soft purr of it sparking a wave of chills up my arms. And there was no ceremonious goodbye, no rush of memories as he put it in drive and pulled away from my house that never was a home.

I’d nearly shredded the end of my braid, so I threw it behind me, right leg bouncing as I wrung my hands together in my lap.

“I’m Cooper,” I finally said when we pulled out of the trailer park. “Cooper Owens.”

“Nice to meet you, Cooper.”

I nodded, leg still bouncing.

“So, why are you going to Washington?”

He shifted, switching hands on the steering wheel as those two familiar lines creased between his brows. “There’s just something I need to see.”

“Well, that’s not vague or anything.”

He didn’t respond, pulling onto I-10 and picking up speed. The wind blowing through the car from the top being down whirled more now, picking up the stray strands of my hair and twirling them around me.

“How old are you?” I yelled over the wind, heart still thundering under my ribs, nervous system in a practical breakdown as it fired off all the warning signals.

DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS.

DON’T GET IN CARS WITH STRANGERS.

DON’T TRAVEL ACROSS THE COUNTRY WITH STRANGERS.

“Twenty-three.”

“What do you do?”

He shook his head, as if my question disappointed him. “I drive.”

“Like for a living?”

“No, like right now, in this moment, I drive.”

“Well, that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” he challenged, glancing at me quickly before returning his gaze to the road.

I stammered, hands waving erratically around me. “I don’t know, just like, who are you? Tell me something to help me freak out less about the decision I just made to get in the car with you.”

He paused. “If I do kill you, I promise to take care of your dog.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Funny.”

He bit back a smile, and I lost my train of thought watching the slow spread of it on his face, the wind whipping through his sandy blond hair, the sun casting a warm glow over half of his face and cool shadows over the other.

“Wait, I know,” I said with a snap of my fingers, pulling my cell phone from my back pocket. “Is your name Emery Reed on Facebook? I can just look through your profile and reassure myself that you’re not a serial killer.”