“Your birthday and your mom’s birthday, same as the garage,” he says, blinking once. I can’t look away, even when he drops his gaze to his lap as he waits through a few rings before my mom answers.

  “Mrs. Mabee, it’s Lucas . . . Fuller,” he says.

  My mom’s voice is muted, but her concern comes through in her tone and pitch.

  “It’s all right, but June slipped at work. I was there with some of the guys, and I didn’t want her driving. Yeah . . . of course.” He leans forward on his fist, resting his weight on his steering wheel like he did in the parking lot after the game last night.

  “Sure, I can wait here. I kinda think she needs to go to the ER though?” He rolls his head to give me a sideways glance. I lift the right side of my mouth in a half grimace. I don’t love doctors. Since my grandmother stayed with us and passed away, I’ve become a little wary of medical stuff.

  “Yeah, she threw up once.” He keeps his gaze on me but his focus roams around my face, his expression a little scientific, as though he’s playing doctor and trying to diagnose something.

  “I can do that. Yes. No, not a problem.” There’s a pause while she talks and he shifts the truck into drive and glances up into the rearview mirror. “I will call you the second we’re there.”

  The call ends and Lucas sets my phone in the small cubbyhole above his stereo buttons. He isn’t pulling forward; instead, he makes a wide U-turn, so I know we’re not going home. We’re going to the hospital. I’m a little panicked about it.

  “Your mom said she’s at the market or something? Is she like a cashier?” I can barely focus on his question, and my answer comes to me slowly.

  “What? No, ummm,” I stammer, scowling while I try to organize my thoughts. We are going to the ER but he also asked a question, two things. “She’s selling her photography. She’s shooting on her own now, and it’s a farmer’s market up north. Good for business.”

  He nods.

  “Am I going to die?”

  Lucas spits out a laugh and turns to see whether I’m joking. I’m not joking. Even though I know I’m not going to die, I’m not joking. This is how my brain works when hospitals get involved.

  “No, June,” he assures, looking back to the road. He reaches over and pats my knee, almost a fatherly gesture. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I do feel less like I’m going to die.

  My phone rings so I reach for it at the same time Lucas does.

  “You’re driving,” I chastise.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, well, you thought you were dying so I thought I should maybe answer.”

  I’d roll my eyes but I’m pretty sure that would send me tumbling out of the truck, so I look at my phone screen and palm the device between both hands. The caller ID says my mom, so I answer and put her on speaker.

  “Mom?” I do a lousy job of hiding my panic.

  “June? It’s gonna be fine. We just want to make sure it’s only a concussion, okay? Lucas? Are you there?” My mom has flipped into management mode. She’s good in a crisis, which is probably a good thing because I seem to find a lot of those.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, moving into the left turn lane for the main road out of our neighborhood.

  “I called the advanced urgent care on Seventy-Fifth. She’s on the waiting list so hopefully you can walk right in and get through. They have my card and insurance on file. If you don’t mind taking her home after? I would never make it there in time.” I think she feels like a bad parent for leaving my care in the hands of a seventeen-year-old boy who bullied me only a week ago. She doesn’t know that last part though, so maybe she just feels bad about the first thing.

  “Got it. I’ll make sure I call you when we get out of the doc,” he says.

  “Thanks,” my mom says, pausing on the line. I pull the phone into my lap and take her off speaker, lifting the phone to my ear.

  “I’m a little freaked out,” I admit to her.

  She expects this from me. I can tell because she has a speech prepared; I’m sure they’re all the right words. It turns out I don’t need any of those right now, though, because while I listen to her, Lucas reaches over and grabs my left hand. I don’t think he’s letting go, either.

  I know I’m not.

  Chapter Eleven

  My head will be just fine. That was the consensus after an MRI.

  My heart, however—it’s fucked.

  We wait for almost two hours before they call me in, which means it’s dark by the time Lucas brings me home. We didn’t talk much in the waiting room, mostly because my head was killing me and the TV mounted to the wall was playing Friends reruns so it was pretty easy to space out. It was never awkward, though. The quiet? It was natural, as were the few times he leaned forward to make sure my eyes were open as I sat slumped in the chair next to him, or when he made sure the air wasn’t hitting me too hard during the drive home.

  I start to think—hope—that maybe we’re turning some kind of corner, that my clumsy fall and head injury might result in a little bit of good. Then Lucas turns his headlights off about four houses from ours and slows his truck as he leans close to the windshield, searching for something mysterious up ahead.

  I ask if he sees something, like an animal or a person. My heart jumps, imagining maybe there’s a burglar at my house.

  “Get out.” His voice is quiet but urgent. I sit up, attentive, and cling to the seat.

  “Is something wrong?” My skin tingles with the rush of adrenaline.

  “June, just fucking get out!”

  I listen. I goddamn listen and obey and get out of the truck, medical papers in my hand along with a list of concussion symptoms to watch out for. I barely get the passenger door closed and he turns around and speeds off, leaving me under a canopy of trees casting creepy-ass shadows on the road, about four hundred yards from my house. When my mom asks a half-dozen times on Sunday to call Lucas for her so she can thank him—walk next door and ring their bell, buy him stupid cookies—I lie and say Tory ended up bringing me home.

  “Lucas had somewhere he needed to go,” I say. “He basically handed me off. He said he wouldn’t be home all day.”

  She knows I’m lying by about 3 p.m. when the thump of that blasted basketball pounds on the driveway next door. She quits asking after that.

  Thing is, not once do I think about that my car is still parked at Eight Lanes. Not when my mom took off early this morning for some school photo sessions she booked at the elementary school. Not a single time when she and I discuss that I’m not allowed to drive for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. And not when I talk to my best friend over breakfast, swapping stories about our weekends and how much shittier mine was than hers.

  I don’t think about it until right now as I look out upon my very empty driveway.

  “Shit.”

  I pull my phone from my back pocket and redial Abby, hoping to catch her before she gets to school. I have a glint of hope when she answers right away.

  “Dude, I need a ride!” I’m pacing while I talk, and as I move up the driveway, the Fuller garage opening clanks behind me. I shade my eyes from the morning sun as I glance over my shoulder to see whose car it is. It’s Lucas’s mom, and his dad’s car is already gone.

  “I’m at school. I have to meet with my counsellor about taking off most of November for that short film I was telling you about.” Damn. I forgot.

  “It’s okay,” I say, feeling very much not okay. I’m going to be late, and to me, being late is maybe one of the most painful things in life. I’d rather go through another MRI.

  “Maybe you can get the bus?” She knows better, but I let her off the hook with a casual “Yeah, good idea” before I let her go. The bus left several minutes ago. I’d be better off running to school, but I’m not a runner. Two-plus miles might get me there by lunch. Fine, by second hour.

  I’m staring at Lucas’s truck. He’s definitely leaving soon. It only makes sense for me to ask him for a ride, yet I still mull over the idea of a taxi or an Uber. He rounds the back of his house before I have a chance to duck out of sight, and stops about ten feet away from me, our eyes locked in a state of awkward panic. He’s slowly chewing a bite from a protein bar, and his hand is frozen, holding it near his lips.

  “I need a ride.” I blurt out my request fast and loud. I wish I could write it off as a side-effect of my injury but no, that was just nerves playing out.

  “Why?” he asks through a full mouth. He finishes chewing his bite and swallows hard while glancing over my shoulder as if there’s some invisible van ready to take me to school.

  “My car is still at work and my mom had a job,” I say. I swallow, though not because I’m eating a protein bar. I’m choking down pride.

  Lucas shifts his feet and glances to his truck, then to the closed garage behind him.

  “Your mom just left,” I say, filling in what I suspect he’s trying to discern. Maybe he’s hiding me from her. It stings a little.

  His teeth grip his bottom lip and his jaw tightens as his eyes flit a few times between me and his truck. I start to feel really uncomfortable. I’m also dwelling on the dark walk home I had Saturday night, when he told me to get the fuck out of his truck.

  I walk toward his passenger door without permission, and when he utters the word “Wait,” I cut him off.

  “You fucking owe me,” I say, turning and pointing at him harshly.

  His tongue pushes at the inside of his cheek but I hold my position, my glare full of fire and determination. He exhales and looks down, his expression frustrated but also yielding. I tug open the door the second he pushes the key fob and releases the lock, and I’m buckled and ready with my bag nestled between my knees before he even opens his door.

  He drops his bag in the back of the truck then sighs, staring at the open space between us. He climbs in and reaches for the folding console on his way inside, knocking it down so we have a barrier. It’s childish, and I don’t care that he helped me after my accident; he’s treating me as though I have the plague.

  I wait until he gets in, his stupid letterman jacket sleeves crinkling as his arms bend, and I slam the center console back up to create a bench seat, leaving the path between us wide open. His head falls to the side and he stares at the space, an annoyed smile playing at his lips. Eventually, he shakes his head and turns on the truck, looking up to adjust his mirror.

  “You and Tory friends now?” He slides through his phone and starts a playlist, some rap song playing loud enough to drown out my reply, so I decide I just won’t answer.

  A short laugh passes through my lips before I can trap it, but it’s masked by the vibrations rattling the truck so Lucas doesn’t notice. I lean my head on the passenger window but the buzzing is too much to take. My head still hurts a little, but thankfully my vision has been fine.

  We zip backward down the driveway and Lucas jerks the wheel, taking off with enough force that my body jostles and my head slams into the headrest. A momentary heartbeat must fool him into caring because he glances to his right to check on me, and I happen to look just in time to see his widened eyes. The concern quickly switches off, though, and he’s back to staring straight ahead, rolling through the various stop signs out of our neighborhood.

  I’m sick of this hot and cold thing he does. I know I’m guilty of sometimes provoking it a little. Honestly, I’m not sure what drives me to needle him so much, other than no matter how hard I will this feeling away, there’s a constant broadcast running through my head, telling me that the Lucas and me from a few years ago is still salvageable.

  “Why did you make me walk?” I speak that loud enough that there is no doubt he heard. His eyes flinch a little, his lashes quaking at the sound of my voice. He pretends he didn’t hear a word, and maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to answer. Or maybe he doesn’t know the answer. Or maybe he’s continuing this push-pull routine because he’s as desperate as I am to cling to some sort of connection between us.

  I let my glare burn into the side of his face until the heat of it is so intense that he has to deal with it.

  “June, just drop it,” he says.

  Damn it. I’m going to engage. I punch the power button on his stereo system with my thumb, stuffing the cab with silence while we still have at least a mile or more in our trip to school. When he reaches forward, I slap his hand away, my fingertips stinging his wrist. He bunches his face and turns to give me an angry stare, but in the midst our childish feud, a car turns into our lane, nearly sideswiping his truck right outside my door. Lucas swerves and his arm juts out to hold me in place, a stiff arm across my chest that I grab like a child on their first roller coaster. The entire incident lasts maybe three seconds, but in its wake, Lucas is protecting me and I’m holding on for dear life. I unfurl my fingers and release my hold when our eyes meet, and he retracts his arm, putting his hand back on the wheel. His expression goes blank, and I hate how practiced he’s become at erasing moments.

  My breathing is hard, the in and out keeping pace with the pounding in my chest. Meanwhile, Mr. Stoic-faced letterman-jacket wearer rushes through the last light before school, clearing the intersection on yellow.

  “You trying to get into another near accident?” I scold. The look on his face remains impressively unfazed.

  We’re running a few minutes behind, but the twins are still waiting around their parking spot, the space next to them open and waiting for Lucas to pull in. No Ava around, or Abby, or my new group of friends. Nobody to witness the shocking display of the two of us pulling into the school lot in the same vehicle. But having to face Tory and Hayden with me in tow must be enough to make Lucas overreact because he cruises right past his usual spot, opting instead for one in the far corner, near the football field. We’ll have to haul ass to make it to class on time from here, and my ankle isn’t in sprinting shape.

  I pull my bag to my chest and get out before Lucas fully shifts into park, and manage to get a few yards ahead of him before he reaches into the back of his truck for his things. I notice when glancing over my shoulder that he’s ditched his jacket, leaving it in his truck. He’s wearing all black, a thin long-sleeved T-shirt that hugs his body and black jeans that ride low on his hips. I hate how attracted I am to him, even still.

  It takes every ounce of determination in my body to maintain my speed to make sure Lucas doesn’t somehow sprint past me, and when I find my legs working into a near jog, I laugh inwardly at how ridiculous all of this is. But that doesn’t stop me from taking things up one more notch.

  “And yeah, Tory and I are friends now. For now. I mean, who knows,” I say as he moves into the space next to me just outside our first period doorway. I glide into the room first, taking my seat a breath before he falls into his, the now familiar kick of his foot against the leg of my chair jostling me. In my unreasonable state, I dig my feet into the floor and push back in my chair with just as much force, my seat back clanking into his desktop with a snap. Momentarily, I actually wanted his fingers to be caught in there, like a trap. My emotions are cooled by the puzzled look on our teacher’s face, so I lift a hand and apologize, making an excuse.

  “Sorry, bag strap was caught on something,” I say, fussing with my backpack at the side of my chair.

  Lucas’s heavy foot hammers at the leg again, but this time I’m level-headed enough to ignore it. And as the pattern continues for the next hour, I grow smug, because I pissed him off with that Tory thing, and more than that, that I’ve stopped playing along.

  Game. Set. Match.

  Chapter Twelve

  Abby is able to drive me to Eight Lanes after school. A lot of good that does, though; my car refuses to start. The sweet girl gave me her last rev over the weekend. I wish I had known, maybe I would have savored the sound. I call my mom while Abby drives me home and tell her the bad news; she arranges for a tow truck to haul my car home. My Uncle John knows his way around an engine, and he promises to come up from Fort Wayne to give it a look next weekend. In the meantime, my trips to school are going to be pieced together with rides from Abby, Lola, and Naomi, because my mom’s photography venture is taking off and she’s looking to rent studio space for portraits. It’s good news, and I’m willing to wake up early and walk to school just to keep her busy and our bills paid.

  “Do you think your mom would be down with doing my new headshots?” Abby’s been posing in front of the mirror on the back of my closet door for about ten minutes.

  “For sure,” I answer, tugging out my laptop and logging in to my student portal. My friend flops down on my bed next to me and pushes my laptop closed.

  “I was working on that, you know,” I groan. She pulls it from my reach.

  “You work too hard on that. Senior year, remember the plan? Coast a little.” She lays back and tugs at the back of my T-shirt, coaxing me to rest next to her.

  “I’m pretty sure the plan has been blown.” I blow out hard enough to move the few stray hairs that fall across my lips.

  “Nah, plan is in full motion,” my friend says, pulling her phone from her back pocket and holding it above her face. She scrolls through a few social media apps in search of something and stops on some comment left by a person tagged RedTedFred.

  June and Tory totally dating.

  My eyes blink quickly and I push the phone away from my face. I’d call it meaningless, but even a wallflower like me knows that high school gossip carries a little bit of weight.

  “We’re not dating,” I clarify.

  “I know. You’d tell me.” There’s a lilt in her tone that tells me she’s not one-hundred percent sure that I would. And since I’m sitting on so many things I haven’t told her, I can’t honestly agree and say “Of course I would,” so I say nothing.

  “Rumors are stupid. And I’m not dating Tory D’Angelo.” Of course, I totally used that very same suspicion to piss off the boy next door and let him wonder what’s up between Tory and me. I’m such a fucking hypocrite.