Page 4

Waiting for Ethan was a big mistake.

Yep, you guessed right; it's god-damn Tuesday.

Well, actually—listening to Joy was the mistake. But if I started listing ways Joy had ruined my life, we'd be here all day, and I didn't have the emotional capacity for that.

I refreshed my phone screen for the twentieth time.

Joy: Just another minute.

Another minute? Another minute? I had already wasted thirty-seven minutes of my life standing outside like a fool. Thirty-seven. That was half a good atomic documentary. That was an entire meal. That was thirty-seven minutes I was never getting back.

The school bus rumbled down the street like a golden chariot of salvation. I could still be normal. I could sit next to the other students and pretend the weekend didn't exist.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Joy: Seriously, one more minute.

Joy: Clark, I swear, you're gonna regret it if you leave.

I exhaled through my nose. This wasn't about Joy twisting my arm—not exactly.

It wasn't about Ethan either. It was the maybe of it all.

Maybe Ethan would show. Maybe this wasn't a waste of time.

And maybe—just maybe—I didn't want to be the guy who left too soon.

Furthermore, I was obligated by the rules of the game to be here.

So, I had more than just one damn reason to be standing here like an idiot.

The bus clattered past. I could feel the decision click into place before I even let myself recognize I'd made it.

Instant regret.

I watched my last chance at a peaceful, uneventful day drive off into the horizon like some kind of hero in a movie.

Goodbye, sanity. I hardly knew thee.

Then silence.

Then more silence.

Then—guess what? —even more silence.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, already drafting the text I was about to send Joy that would include at least twelve threats, five disappointed emojis, and possibly a hex.

Just as I turned to go back inside, I heard it.

A low hum.

The kind of sound that vibrated through your bones and made you question your entire tax bracket.

I turned just in time to see the car.

And by "the car," I mean the single most expensive, absurdly luxurious, stupidly shiny piece of machinery I had ever seen in my life.

It didn't drive—it arrived.

It had that sort of presence, like demanding an audience and carrying with itself an assurance that one should be bowing to it.

And, naturally, it had no roof.

Because, of course, it didn't.

We are talking about Ethan-the-rich-kid-demon here.

The convertible glided to a stop so slick that it should've been on skates. The tinted window slid down in slow motion as if it were condemning me for poverty.

And then, there he was.

Ethan.

Wearing sunglasses.

Even though the sun was barely out.

Of course.

"Finally," he said like he was the one who'd suffered. "I've been looking for your house all morning."

I blinked. "Are you—are you serious? Ethan, I have been standing here for almost an hour."

"Yeah, because your house is impossible to find," he said as if it were my fault for not living in a castle with neon signs that read, 'Clark Lives Here, You Moron.'

"It's not hard to find," I said. "It's a house. It's numbered. It's right here."

Ethan waved a hand. "Whatever. Get in."

I stared at the roofless monstrosity. Hesitating.

This car cost more than my entire existence.

This was not the type of car that you simply climbed into like some sort of peasant.

But then I remembered one very important thing.

Joy would never let me hear the end of it if I chickened out last minute.

I sighed and slid into the seat.

And immediately regretted it.

1. The seats were leather. But probably not called leather—probably some fancy name like artisanal organic cow silk.

2. Ethan wasn't buckled up.

Now, I may be socially anxious, shy, and generally bad at human interaction, but if there is one hill I will absolutely die on, it's safety regulations.

"You're not wearing a seatbelt," I said.

Ethan, still fiddling with his ridiculous touchscreen dashboard, didn't even look up. "Yeah, I don't really do that."

I stared at him. "I'm sorry. You don't do seatbelts? Like it's some optional extra?"

"It's cool," he said languidly. "I have fast reflexes."

Oh. Okay. Well. As long as he had fast reflexes.

I twisted in my seat to face him squarely.

"Ethan. Buddy. Pal. I need you to listen to me very carefully when I say this: Put. On. Your. Seatbelt." Trust me, calling him buddy/pal sucked more than watching my phone fall in slow motion and still not being fast enough to catch it. But if that was going to act as an incentive, it was worth it.

He grinned. "What, are you scared?"

"YES. YES, I AM."

Ethan let out a long, dramatic sigh, like my wanting to not die in a fiery wreck was deeply inconvenient to him.

After several more seconds of glaring, he finally—finally—clicked his seatbelt in place.

"Happy?"

I nodded. "Ecstatic. Now let's—"

And then we took off so fast I briefly saw my soul leave my body.

The wind immediately attacked my face.

Because. No roof.

For the next few minutes, we sat in absolute silence. No radio. No communing. And definitely no flirting. But wasn't it sweet.

It was the kind of silence that made one aware of the awkwardness in the air.

Meanwhile, Ethan drove like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious.

I gripped my seat for dear life, my hair becoming one entity with the wind.

Then, out of the blue—

I saw it.

A bunny.

A small, fluffy, pure-hearted, baby angel of nature.

Hopping onto the road.

I gasped. "BUNNY!"

Ethan: "WHAT—?!"

Before I could explain, Ethan, in a move of utter overreaction, yanked the wheel so hard that I'm fairly certain we left this dimension for a moment.

The car veered off the road like it was personally offended.

Tires shrieked. I shrieked.

The car spun.

And then—

BOOM.

The airbag exploded on my face.

And that, my friends, is how a bunny almost turned me into a road confetti.