Page 117 of Rebel Summer

“I’m going to regret telling you this,” he began, “but I’m half delirious right now. I know you Googled the tattoo of my car, but have you ever looked closer?”

“Huh?”

“Maybe you should.”

“Wait. What?”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Caroline.”

All of a sudden, the tune of “Sweet Caroline” was being knocked on the floor of the holding cell. With a grin on my face, I made a mental note to examine Dax’s tattoos more thoroughly in the morning, and with my body half numb from lying on the concrete floor, I slipped off to sleep.

Sometime later, I felt myself being lifted up off the hard ground. I became slightly more aware when Dax placed me gently on the bed.

“Ew. I don’t want to use the pillow,” I mumbled, trying to move my head away.

“I’ve got something covering it. Relax.”

Carefully, I let my head fall back, waiting for something to eat me. Instead, I was enveloped in a soft, uneven pillow that smelled exactly like Dax. His shirt. His hand brushed a hair out of my face, and I felt a soft kiss on my forehead before he moved away.

“Dax?”

“Yeah?”

“I thought you didn’t kiss girls who are leaving.”

“Are you leaving?” His voice was as soft as his caress.

“I don’t know.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

Biology Class

Day 50

I sat up straight as Dax made his way across the room toward our table. My limbs felt strangely disassociated from the rest of my body. My hands tried to find their natural place toying with my hair, then resting on the desk, before finally coming together clenched tightly in my lap.

He settled in beside me, dropping his bag on the ground and plopping his phone onto the desk with a sigh. We were careful not to touch. Our shoulders kept a respectful twelve-inch distance between them.

“Dax, I’m sorry for what I said the other day. I was just…mad.” I winced at the awkwardness of my speech. The apologetic words that had been burning in my head the past couple days were nowhere to be found when I finally had my chance.

Dax turned to me, his eyebrows raised appreciatively. “Wow. Did your dad’s PR manager help you come up with that? That was pretty good, Books.”

“Dax,” I began.

“It’s fine. We’re good.”

“Why do you look like we’re not?”

“We are. It’s not like we’re friends. We only have a couple days left until graduation. And then…you’re off to change the world, so…we’re good. Just be sure to tell your fans who did all the heavy lifting in your high school biology class.”

Beau didn’t forget about us.

At promptly 8:30 am the next morning, the door to the jail flew open with a loud bang. Beau stepped inside, dressed in his full uniform, and flipped on the lights. Dax and I stretched and yawned. Him from his spot on the floor and me from the bed—which had been surprisingly comfortable as far as jail beds go. I hated to give up my Dax-scented shirt pillow, but I tossed it to him anyway.

Beau walked inside the room and plopped a humongous book on his desk. He then picked it up and plopped it down again before looking over at us.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you both?”

---