Page 96 of Ice Mechanic

“You were never a pumpkin, April,” I assure her.

She gnaws on her bottom lip, and I realize we have yet to make eye contact. Tilting my head and stepping closer, I test whether she’s really avoiding me.

April drops back a step, her eyes on the ground.

Why won’t she look at me?

“It’s getting late. We should go.” She dives into the car like she’s being chased. I try to close her door for her, but it’s yanked out of my grip as April slams it shut herself.

Inside, the air is icy. April stares straight through the windshield, her fingers pulled into fists on her lap and her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She tosses the word at me.

“You can rest tonight if you’re not up to going out.”

“No, I’d rather get it over with.”

Ouch.

April can be… prickly, but she’s never been like this.

I pin my mouth shut and turn down Main Street. It’s surprisingly heavy with traffic. Must be from all the spectators going out for drinks and revelry after the game.

The sound of fabric rustling brings my attention back to April. Streaks of silver light falls on her as we pass under a streetlight. I stare at an exquisitely made up face, mesmerized. Big green eyes. Button nose. Not a hint of freckles.

Why did she cover up her freckles?

I wrack my brain for a way to break the ice. Nothing comes to mind so I turn on the radio. Twelve inches to my right, a red-painted fingernail taps out a rhythm on her skirt.

Focus on the road, Chance.

What perfume is April wearing? It’s a light, flowery scent that fills the car and makes my head spin.

Eyes ahead.

April swings one leg over the other. Red fabric parts and reveals a tantalizing slit. Have mercy. Since when did this dress have a slit? Is she trying to murder me?

“Chance, what are you doing! It’s a red light!” April screams.

I wrench my gaze back to the road just in time to slam on the brakes. A drunk crossing the street yells expletives and shakesa beer-clad fist at me. Lifting a hand in apology, I studiously ignore April’s mad-dog stare drilling into the side of my face.

The Lambo purrs as I switch lanes.

My heart is banging on my ribs like a drummer at a rock concert.

Squeezing the steering wheel even tighter, I force my attention on the new sign in the town square. They’re advertising a food drive. That’s good. Very humanitarian. I should probably donate some cans. I’ll first need to buy some cans since I’m still living in a hotel and don’t currently have groceries… that perfume—what on earth is it? It smells so good.

I press the tab on my door and my window rolls down. Air. I need some air.

“Can you roll that up? My hair is…” April tries to corral the strands. “It can’t take that much wind.”

I close the window. Cans. Food cans. Can drive. Charity. What cans should I donate?

In the corner of my eye, April is raking her fingers through her mane. Her hair, it’s a different color, isn’t it? I can’t exactly tell. It’s still brown, but not the same brown as before. Her hair smells good too. Every time she flicks it, I get a whiff of fruity shampoo. Does every part of her body smell insanely good?

I can’t think about her body parts.

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