Page 100 of Never Your Girl

32

Holland

We slip into Garret’s beat-up Ford Escape and the door groans as I close it. The faint, cloying sweetness of a pine air freshener clings to the air. The seats are worn, with a couple of tears in the fabric revealing the foam beneath. My fingers skim the edge of the cracked dashboard, and a small part of me softens at the sight. Like me, it’s obvious that Garret doesn’t come from money.

As we pull out of the parking lot and head south, I glance around, watching the scenery blur past the window. The fraternity and sorority houses near campus morph into the small shops and boutiques of downtown, the streets lined with brick façades and empty flower planters. It doesn’t take long before we turn into a residential area where the houses are compact and a little run-down. Paint peels from porches, and yards look a little unkempt.

That’s when it hits me that I haven’t asked the most obvious question.

“Where are we headed?”

Garret flicks a look in my direction, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “Just a place I like to go when I need to think.”

“Oh.” I shift in my seat. The unease I’ve been feeling since I agreed to this rises another notch. “Okay.”

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the hum of the engine. My fingers drum against my thigh as my instincts scream that this was a bad idea.

We come to a stop at a small park. It’s the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. A couple of trees dot the landscape, their branches casting thin shadows over the cracked basketball court and rusting jungle gym. A single picnic table sits off to the side, its once-red paint faded to a dull brown.

Garret parks and turns off the engine, and I swivel toward him, just wanting to get this over with. The sudden silence feels heavy, thick with tension.

A strange pit has taken up residence in my gut. Garret has never scared me, and he doesn’t necessarily now, but I’m getting a weird vibe from him. My instincts have always been sharp, and at the moment, they’re practically screaming at me.

“Would you mind if we sat over there?” He nods toward the picnic table.

I hesitate. My gut tells me to decline, to stay in the safety of the car or, better yet, to leave entirely. Instead, I nod. “Sure. I just… can’t stay long.”

He jerks the handle and pushes the door open before climbing out. “Yeah, no problem.”

The chilly air nips at my skin as I follow him, careful to avoid the muddy puddles scattered across the grass. Once we reach the table, I settle across from him, lacing my fingers together and resting them on the scarred wood.

“So, what’s on your mind?” I ask, my voice steady despite the nervous energy bubbling inside me.

Garret shifts, his knee bouncing like a jackhammer under the table. His gaze flits around the park before landing on me. “I’ve always liked you, Holland.”

The bluntness of his words knocks me off balance, and my brain spins, unsure how to respond.

“I guess I was hoping that, at some point, you might feel the same. I think we have a lot in common.”

I shift in my seat as unease prickles across my skin. “You’re right, we do have some things in common, and I’ve always liked you too,” I admit carefully. “As a friend.”

He nods, his expression tightening. “Yeah, I get that. It just sucks. Sanderson isn’t the right guy for you. In the end, he’ll just hurt you. And I don’t want to see that happen.”

“I appreciate you looking out for me, but I didn’t come here to discuss my relationship with Bridger. Even if I weren’t with him, it wouldn’t have changed anything between us.” I keep my tone gentle but firm, hoping to defuse the situation without wounding him further.

His jaw works as he nods again, the continuous bouncing of his knee betraying his agitation.

“Garret?” I prompt when the silence stretches too long. “Is there something else?”

“This is hard,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.

I watch him closely, the uneasy pit in my stomach growing. “Sometimes it helps to just get it off your chest.”

Before he can respond, his gaze shifts over my shoulder and his features harden. I turn, following his line of sight. My stomach twists when I spot a middle-aged man in a suit stepping out of one of the nearby houses. The man’s tie hangs loose, and he straightens his jacket, as if he’s in a rush or maybe leaving somewhere he shouldn’t have been.

My pulse quickens as recognition slams into me. “Wait a minute, isn’t that Bridger’s father?”

Garret’s glare sharpens. “Yeah.”

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