Page 75 of Begin Again

Before she can reach for the truck door, I step in front of her. “Let me help you.”

She hesitates—just for a second—but I catch a flicker in her expression, the way her breath hitches when I swing the passenger door open. Her fingers twitch when I take her hand to help her up, and even though she’s quick to mask it, I don’t miss the shiver that skates up her spine. Barely there, but I feel it.

Her eyes flick to mine, and I don’t bother hiding my grin.

She rolls her eyes, but I can tell, it’s more for show than anything. “Such a gentleman.”

“Always,” I murmur, watching as she settles into the seat. I linger longer than necessary, taking her in—the way she tucks one leg beneath her, the stretch of her legs against the worn bench seat, the way my old truck makes her look small in the best way. Like she belongs here, right in the middle of whatever this is—whatever good is finally unfolding.

This truck has held so many memories—me laughing until my stomach hurt with my uncle on long drives, windows down, and music blasting. Late-night runs for pizza from Tony’s. Sitting in the driveway after work, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. It’s a piece of my past, but right now, with Selene sitting there, looking effortlessly perfect in its worn leather seat, it doesn’t feel like just nostalgia. It feels like a beginning, a shift I didn’t expect.

I shake the thought away and shut the door as I circle my truck to the driver’s side.

By the time I slide in and start the engine, the air between us has shifted. It’s still charged—has been since the moment I got in her bed—but it’s different now. Charged. Waiting to crack open like a summer storm.

We should be focused on what’s ahead. On the meeting at Mo’s. On the people who’ve died, and the ones who might be next, even the ones we’ve missed.

But for now, in the cab of my old truck, it’s just us.

As I pull out of the driveway, the hum of the engine fills the space between us. Selene leans her head against the window, watching the town slip past in a blur of sunlit streets and quiet homes. She seems content, but the way her fingers drum absentmindedly against her knee makes it seem like she’s holding back.

“So,” she finally says, breaking the silence as she stretches her legs out in front of her. “What’s your favorite place in the world?”

The question catches me off guard. I was expecting small talk—a lighter topic to ease the weight pressing down on us. But I like that she doesn’t start there.

I tighten my grip on the wheel, considering. “I don’t know if I have just one. It’s more about a feeling than a place, you know? Like—” I pause, thinking of late summer nights spent at the cafe, the way the neon sign glows against the dark, the warmth of a freshly brewed cup of coffee in my hands. “Anywhere that feels like home.”

She hums as if she understands. “So, not a specific location, but the feeling of being grounded?”

I nod. “Yeah. What about you?”

She shifts slightly in her seat, gaze flickering to me before settling back on the road ahead. “I don’t know if I’ve found it yet.” There’s a wistful note in her tone that makes me glance at her a little longer than I should.

“No place that comes close?”

She exhales a soft laugh. “Maybe the ocean. Not a beach—too crowded. Just… standing at the edge of the world, listening to the waves crash. There’s something about it that makes everything else feel small.”

“Sounds lonely.”

She tilts her head, considering. “Maybe. But sometimes it’s nice to be small, to let everything else be big for a while.”

I don’t answer right away. The way she says it sticks with me.

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind that settles, that lingers in a way that doesn’t need to be filled.

Glancing at her again, my heart skips a beat at the way she sits curled up in my truck like she’s always belonged there.

She must feel the shift in the air, too, because a slow smirk tugs at her lips. She turns toward me, the smirk on her lips just shy of trouble. “Alright. How do you feel about Twenty Questions?”

I glance at her, arching a brow. “You’re seriously wanting to play elementary school games right now?”

She shrugs, a playful smirk on her lips. “Unless you’d rather sit in silence, thinking about cyanide and dead bodies?”

I exhale a laugh. She’s got a point. “Fine. We’ll trade off. I ask, then you ask.”

She nods. “Deal.”

I drum my fingers against the wheel. “Okay, first question. If you had to swap lives with any fictional character, who would it be?”

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