Athalia Quinn

6 - Get In

Oh gosh, the car lights are getting brighter and brighter. Oh gosh, the car is coming closer and closer. I start walking faster.

Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh—

The car stops next to me. I hear the window roll down.

"Get in."

Oh, heck no. I am not getting in a random vehicle—

Wait. I know that voice.

I turn to see a slick black Ferrari. Inside, Levi has one hand on the steering wheel, and he's leaning over the passenger seat to speak to me through the open window, which is causing rain to get in his car.

I'm confused at his offer. "What?"

He clenches his jaw, seemingly annoyed. "Get your ass in the car before I fucking leave you here."

Okay, fine. Geez, someone needs a swear jar.

I hurry inside the car, frowning at my drenched clothes. "Sorry, I'm getting your seats all—"

"Where were you walking?"

I don't answer right away, caught off-gaurd by his random question. "Um...home?"

"Alone? In the fucking dark?" His grip on the steering wheel tightens, and his speed picks up.

I slowly turn to him, smiling. "Aw, you care about my safety?"

Is this what it feels like to have a friend? To have someone who cares about you?

"No."

Oh. "Then why did you bother to give me a ride?"

"Because." His knuckles are white by now.

"Because why?"

He doesn't answer, so I say it again. And again. And again.

"Shut the fuck up," he groans, leaning his head back on his seat.

I play with my hands on my lap. I bet he wants to play the quiet game. Girls in elementary and middle school, and sometimes even highschool, would beg me to join them in the quiet game. At first, i thought it was a fun little challenge. Still do, honestly. But then I figured out that they just wanted me to stop talking.

Now that I think about it, they should thank me. I'd always let them win.

Sneakily, I look over at Levi. He's so pretty, it's unfair. Holy smokes, his Mcfreakin' jawline! His hair is messy, but somehow still perfect atop his head. I believe that everybody should have as lovely of a side profile that he has.

My eyes trail down to his shirt, and although its dark, I know where the lemonade spilt on him.

"I'll pay for that," I say after a few silent moments. "I gave most of my money to the homeless woman I met today, which I must tell you about someday." I pause. "Well, that is, if you'd still like to be my friend..."

He doesn't say anything, and I feel awkward.

I click my tongue. "Anyway, I don't have any cash right now. But when I get my paycheck next week—"

"I don't want to be your friend."

Oh.

Well hot-dang, that stung. It's my fault, I should've seen it coming. Especially after spilling on him.

Oops.

"Okay," I say quietly. I resist the urge to ask why. If I knew why no one wanted to be my friend, then I could change. I could fix whatever's wrong with me, then maybe I'd make some friends.