Page 84 of Fragile

She climbs in, and I notice how she hesitates for just a moment before settling into the seat. She’s so full of sunshine that when it dims like it is right now, it’s like her entire self stops glowing.

Pulling the door shut with a soft sigh, she rests a hand on her stomach.

“You okay?” I ask, my brow furrowing. “You’re tense.”

“I’m not, I’m okay.” She waves me off, but I can tell there’s something up.

“Is it your ankle again?”

“No,” she breathes out, as I pull out of the school parking lot, trying not to be too distracted by her.

“Queenie, I’ve known you our whole lives. I can tell when something’s off. Talk to me.”

“I’m really fine.” But her voice wavers just enough to give her away.

I twist my mouth as I think of the best plan here. “Well, I’m going to keep driving until you spill. And according to my calendar, I’ve got an afternoon that’s supposed to be spent volunteering at the shelter again, so you can talk, or we can be late.”

“It really is nothing,” she mutters. “Let’s just get there.”

“Humor me,” I coax gently.

She groans, and I feel the weight leave her. “I just have…cramps, okay? I’m tired, and this morning, I cried at a car commercial I saw on social media. All I want is the worst, greasiest food I can find—preferably a burger and fries with a milkshake to dip the fries into, and I don’t want anyone telling me it’s weird because I’ll just cry again. I want to sit and watch the new Taylor Swift tour movie for the seventh time because it makes me happy, and maybe I’ll cry at that too because it reminds me I didn’t get tickets to that tour—who knows at this point.” She pauses, taking a deep breath, as if to steady herself before continuing. “But we have other things to do, so I’m dealing. We’re going. I’m being an adult, even though I really don’t want to.”

Realization dawns on me that this version of Queenie usually only happens once a month. Ahead, I spot a right turn after the stop sign and make a decision. I swing the truck into the road, and from the corner of my eye, I see Quinn grab the ‘oh shit’handle above her head. Her eyes are wide as she turns to me. “Miles! What are you doing? We’re going to be late!”

“No.”

“No?” she repeats, incredulous. “No to what?”

“I’m calling you in sick,” I say with a determined grin, making a mental note to steal the number from her phone in a minute. I don’t think Quinn has ever let anyone down with a sick day in her life, but that ends today. “We’re going to Lakeside to get your burger, fries, and milkshake. Then, we’re heading back to my dorm, where you can watch Taylor on my big-ass TV. We can cry together, and you can dip those fries into the milkshake as many times as you damn well please.”

Jeez, now I was the one monologuing. What is she doing to me?

“You’re going to make me cry again.” She sniffs as she fights back tears. “I’m supposed to be the one helping you.”

“And sometimes, Queenie,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her hand, “I want to be the one helping you.”

My tires squeak to a halt at another stop sign, and I turn to see Quinn looking at me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll argue. But then, she just nods, and my heart does a little victory dance.

A few minutes later, we pull into Lakeside Diner parking lot, the familiar neon sign glowing against the fading afternoon light. When we head inside, the mouthwatering smell of fried food hits me. I’m about to break my in-season diet plan and I couldn’t care less. Especially not if it makes the girl next to me feel better.

“Hey, man,” Brad, the owner, says as he sees me. “You want a table?”

“Nah, just takeout today.”

He nods. “Good luck in the semis next week. We’re rooting for y’all.” He smiles, and I know he means well, but a light prickleof awareness has my skin itching as we make our way down to the takeout counter. I force a smile and take Quinn’s hand in mine without a second thought of who sees us because I need her to ground me. Even after we’ve ordered, his words linger in the forefront of my mind, stirring up a restlessness I can’t quite shake. Making that pressure return to sit on my chest like an invisible barbel I can’t shift. “Hey, you know you didn’t have to do this for me. We can still go to the shelter.”

I blink, bringing my attention to her. “No, I want to do this for you. Everyone needs a break sometimes. Even you.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. I know she gets it, but she’s trying to put me first again. I’m not okay with that when she needs someone to take care of her. Today, I’m that person. The food arrives, and we take it back to my truck, driving to my dorm.

“I have a heating pad in my room if that’ll help you?” I say, as we open the door to my room. She flicks on the light and walks over to my desk, placing our food there. “I can put it in the microwave, and it smells like lavender.”

“Does it also happen to be in the shape of a sausage dog?” She chuckles quietly.

“It does. How…?”

“Mom got them for everyone last Christmas. I’m guessing you got one too. But yes, I’d love to use it, if you don’t mind.”

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