Page 5 of This Might Hurt

As if I reminded him, he pulls the plastic bag of cash out from under his feet and dumps a pile of crumpled bills into his lap.

“Sorry, I gotta count this shit.” He starts sorting them into piles, humming under his breath like he’s entirely unconcerned about fucking up everyone’s afternoon.

He counts each stack twice, rolls it up in the cupholder between us, and scrawls a number on his arm with a battered pen from his pocket.

I realize, as I watch him struggle to add the column of numbers snaking down the lean muscle of his arm, that I forgot what actual money looks like.

I was built from money instead of love, all my organs stuffed with it, my skin made of it, money clogging my veins and spilling out on my tongue when I speak.

But I never hold it in my hands. I forgot how elemental it can be, so dirty and torn.

“What did you get for all that drama?” I ask when he’s finished. “A few hundred?”

His pale eyebrows go up as he tosses the rolls of bills back in the bag, letting them get all messy again. “I mean, sure, if you want to be rude about it. Why do you give a shit anyway?”

“I don’t. I just can’t understand why it’s worth ruining your life for two hundred dollars.”

“What life? And it’s three hundred and twenty seven dollars, thank you.” He shoves the bag into his backpack. I can’t tell if he’s joking or if he’s actually proud of that number.

Pulling out his phone, he checks the time and curses softly as he ruffles a hand through his short hair. “Hey, am I allowed to make a call, or are you gonna get mad at me for that, too?”

“I—” I cut myself off and frown at the road.

He’s trying to wind me up. “You’ll have to try it and see.

” My brain keeps throwing up warning signs, reminding me how much pain I’d be in if I talked back to anyone at home like this.

I’ve always been weak to someone acting like I matter; it makes me forget who I am.

Jude blinks at me, then lets out another freakishly pleased laugh and flicks through his contacts list. His grin fades as he chooses a number and tips his head back against the seat, his dirty knee bouncing next to the gear shift.

It rings forever, but he doesn’t give up.

Finally, the chirpy voice of a teenage girl answers.

His face lights up like all the best days of summer at once. “Hey, fart face.”

When he notices me gawking at him, he flips me off lazily and angles his body away. “Good news, kiddo. I talked to that nonprofit I told you about, with the medical equipment grant. They’re gonna cover your wheelchair motor.”

The voice on the other end pitches up into a squeal I can hear clearly from my seat.

He winces and holds the phone further from his ear, shooting me a wry look like I’m in on some joke.

When whoever it is finally stops chattering, he scoffs.

“Have faith in me, turd bucket. I made sure they’ll have it ready for graduation.

Text me the payment link for the repair and I’ll send it to the nonprofit guys.

Yeah, they’re the best. They totally saved the day.

” His smile wavers, and his gaze catches on mine with the unfocused look of someone trying to dissociate enough to convince themselves they’re not in pain.

Behind the strangeness of him I can sense so many familiar feelings.

I hope he carries the hurt more easily than I have.

For some reason I hate the idea of him suffering.

I want to tell him it’s okay, that once you get used to it, you can live with this feeling a long, long time before you break.

“Take care of yourself, kid. I love you,” he adds, eyes searching mine before he twists away and rests his forehead against the window. “I’ll talk to you next week.”

After he hangs up, he just turns his small, cheap phone over and over in his hands. “Do you want to have an opinion about that, too?” he asks irritably, when the silence gets too heavy.

“No,” I lie. Every time I look at him, he makes less and more sense at the same time.

“Good.” Running a hand roughly down his face, he sighs. “I’m guessing you don’t want me to smoke in here.”

The thought of Archie smelling smoke in his upholstery makes me want to vomit, but I remind myself that he never will. “I don’t care.”

Exhaling with relief, he fishes out a crumpled red and white carton from the pocket of his cargo shorts.

He has a vintage silver lighter that reminds me of my grandfather’s, which he ignites with a practiced motion.

The shrill wind whistles through the gap when he rolls the window down slightly, whipping at his sweaty hair.

He smokes in a slow, relentless rhythm, like he’ll suffocate if he stops.

The smell burns painfully in my nostrils.

That van driver had a cigarette when he got out to apologize for almost running over me.

I remember thinking that it was probably against his company policy.

But I guess we all need a way to ease the ache.

After a minute, he clears his throat and I realize he’s holding out his cigarette to me between two battered knuckles.

I haven’t smoked since I hacked my lungs out on one of my grandfather’s Montecristo cigars when I was sixteen.

Since I need something to do with my hands besides strangling the steering wheel, I accept it from his sun-warmed fingers and glance at the tip, damp from his mouth.

When I take a tentative pull, I can’t tell if the taste is him or the nicotine.

It hurts more than I remember. Pressing my lips together does nothing to stifle my choking sounds, but I inhale one more time before passing it back and wiping the tears out of my eyes. Unlike my uncles with the cigar, he doesn't laugh at me.

The highway crests a gentle rise. It’s nothing, barely even a hill, but in such a flat landscape it gives us a view spanning miles and miles of emptiness.

The storm brewing behind us whips high clouds across the sky until their shadows look like water rippling over the plains.

When I squint, I catch the shimmer of sun on a grid of dusty buildings and beyond it the telltale line of green trees that signals a river.

My river. My stomach twists, a stab of pain, my weak body rebelling.

“Hey.” Jude perks up, spotting the town a few seconds after me. “We’re almost there.”