Pusher

thirty-five.

I was curled up on my reclined seat, eyes closed, but far from drowsy. The constant buzz of my thoughts and the anxiety twisting in my gut made sleep sound more like a bitter joke. For a while, I listened to the muffled sound of the party permeating through the car window, but two sharp taps on the glass broke me from what little peace I had.

Maverick climbed in as soon as I unlocked the door. I'm not sure exactly what I expected from him. Maybe to be angry at me?

But he wasn't, or at least he didn't seem to be. He was just tired, slumping his side into the passenger door, his forehead resting against the glass. It was hard to tell in the dim glow of the streetlamps, but I could have sworn I saw a red mark blossoming at the base of Maverick's neck.

I started the car up, and pulled onto the street, trying to shake all the feelings that clouded around my head. It was going to be a long ride home.

Maverick shifted in his seat every few minutes, unable to get comfortable enough to pass out. Eventually, he gave up and started playing with the radio. It wasn't until I saw him squinting at the face plate and fumbling with the buttons that I realized how much more intoxicated he had gotten since we last saw each other.

"How do you even work this thing?" he mumbled.

"It's hooked up to my phone through bluetooth. If you want to switch it over to radio you have to—"

But his fingers jammed into the play button before I could finish, and the opening chords to Five Claws cut through the speaker, followed by the indecipherable lyrics of the band's screamer. Both of us jumped at the volume, and he twisted the knob until I could clearly hear his laughter.

"I thought you said you listened to Top 40?"

"Actually you said that. I just never corrected you," I said, glancing over at him while we were stuck at a red light. I dove into the center console to grab my phone. "You know, I think I might have something a little more up your alley."

This turned out to be a mistake. As soon as it was in my hand, Maverick snatched away my cell and started flicking through the songs. Naturally, he tested out only the most intriguing names, which happened to be the most violent sounding ones. So while he laughed at Portuguese Blood Bath, Party with the Devil, and Sweet Carnage, I hid my reddened cheeks behind a sheet of hair.

"I can't believe you listen to screamo," he choked out. His forehead had wrinkled together with laughter and he slumped into the door, curling up in near hysterics.

The sight might have even been cute if I wasn't busy being mortified by embarrassment.

He straightened up for a moment, fighting off a broad smile. "So are you still going through a middle school emo phase or are you just getting into it now? Cause now that I think about it you might really work raccoon eyeliner and black hair. At least the melodramatic poetry makes sense now. And hey, if you start slitting your wrists—"

I whipped my arm out and landed a solid hit across his chest before he could finish. "Not funny!" His rich laughter still bubbled between us, but as I glanced over at his crinkled eyes and dimples, the urge to reach across the center console and strangle him subsided. Just barely.

"Don't you ever get tired of making fun of literally everything that I do?"

My annoyance must have shone clearly through my voice because he glanced over at me and his laughter died on his lips. He took on his familiar guarded eyes and serious tone.

"I think it's kind of cool."

"Oh, sure you do," I retorted dryly. "Why don't we just go to a concert together? On the drive down we can write emo poetry and laugh about my dead grandparents."