Page 29 of False Start

Talent. Money. Luxury goods.

He barked out a laugh, finally grabbing the keys from my hand. “That’s probably the truth. Good thing your car isn’t nice.”

At least he’d cheered up. I rounded the car and slid into the passenger seat, readying my first instruction. Instead, Trent cranked the engine and immediately stalled the car.

“Well, I love your confidence.” I metered out my words, poorly attempting to cover my disappointment. “But maybe start by pressing the clutch down.”

He fumbled with the seat, pushing it back as far as it would go to accommodate his height. Then, he messed with the mirrors and the keys.

“You probably should have done thatbeforeyou tried to start the car.” The words only made him stall more. “People will start showing up any minute.”

He punched in the clutch and started the car.

“Great, now put it in gear.”

He squinted, leaning over the stick shift and studying the faded letters.

“You know about gears, right?” I asked with a grimace.

“First?” He pointed to the middle of the stick shift.

“That’d be a great place to start.”

With a bit of grinding, he pushed the car in first. “Why is this so hard?”

“The car is shit, and you knew that before you signed on for this adventure. Now, give it a little gas and let out the clutch. You should feel it catch.”

He punched the gas, lifting his foot and stalling the car again.

“Damn it.” He rubbed his forehead, shaking his head.

Trent wasn’t used to facing adversity, and it showed.

A small wave of pity rose in my chest. “You had the basic order of operations that time, at least.”

“You sure I can’t just navigate?” The cocky grin was back on his face, but with none of the bravado behind it.

I shook my head. “It’s easy once you’re driving. Now, try again.”

Trent raked a hand through his straw-colored hair. “Alright, I’ve got this.”

“Good pep talk, now go.”

He stalled it a few more times on his lap around the parking lot. After the lap, other cars filtered in, but he managed to park without a misfire.

He wiped his palm over his forehead. “Fuck. I’m sweating.”

“Doing something dumb sixteen-year-olds do every day,” I joked.

“Dumb sixteen-year-olds don’t have you in the passenger seat judging them.”

“I wasn’t judging. I was coaching. And being really nice about it. I called Derek a dummy at least four times, and he stalled twice on his first lap around a parking lot.”

“How many times did I stall?”

“I don’t want to answer that, Texas. Especially not after you started to feel good about yourself.”

He laughed. “Fair point, Kitten.”

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