Page 80 of Secondhand Smoke
Months since they’d become friends, and he’d never seen her get into a single car. He knew why. He’d heard the bits and pieces, and read the articles. He knew enough.
Yet something had changed, and he hadn’t been there to know what.
But if she wanted to, if it made her happy, who was he to say no?
“Whatever you’d like.” Grabbing his keys off the counter, he didn’t waste time lingering around. He stepped out onto the front porch and gestured to the van parked haphazardly next to the house. “Lead the way.”
Her eyes went wide like she’d expected him to deny her. But rather than questioning him, she nodded, turned to face the vehicle, and walked down the wooden steps and through the dust. He followed close behind, watching her back.
The closer they got to the van, the slower her steps became—gentle and methodical like she was trying not to spook an animal.
He followed her anxious movements around to the passenger side, matching her pace and waiting until she was next to the door.
That confidence in her voice from moments before didn’t translate to her body. They stood like that for moments, staring at the doorknob. He stayed silent, waiting for her to make the next move and fighting against his urge to shift on his feet in the awkward stillness of their positions.
“Barrett,” she said, her voice startling him. She rubbed her hand on her pant leg.
“Nell.” He caught the tremor in her hand right before her fingers gripped the denim in a fist.
“Can you open the door for me?”
He nodded, stepping up to her side and opening the door as gently as possible.
Without meeting his gaze, she gave a single nod of thanks.
He studied the side of her face, focusing on her lip being sucked into her mouth and worried by her teeth. “Nell, if you—”
“I’m okay.” She took a deep breath, she stepped up, and lifted herself into the passenger side.
Barrett kept his hand on the open door, giving her a few moments, letting her adjust. When she took another deep breath, he did the same. “I’m gonna close the door now, okay?”
She hummed what sounded like an acknowledgment. He closed the door gently and rushed to the driver’s side so she didn’t have to be in there alone for more than three seconds.
He climbed in and found her staring at the dash with unfocused eyes.
Everything he did was gentle, steady: turning the key, putting the car in drive, pressing on the gas.
She was a statue—still, unblinking—but breathing heavy, long breaths.
He stayed quiet and kept the music off.
He’d never questioned the interior of his van. It was what it was, and he was used to it. But what did she think? Was it calming? What did she smell? Was a jerky, old van the best place to reintroduce her to driving?
They hit a small bump. He glanced at her, but her face was still. Her breaths were heavier, he thought.
He wished he could read minds, wished he knew how to help her better or what to say and do. He was a dope when it came to this stuff. Inexperienced. Destined to say the wrong things and possibly make the wrong moves.
He tapped his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel, torn between staring at her or at the road.
He was overthinking it.
It was simple: All he knew to do was drive straight and go the limit, and just not cra—
“Stop.”
He almost didn’t hear it. It was so quiet and raspy it could have been mistaken as the wind. But then her heavy breaths became harsher, more ragged. He snapped his head toward her.
“Please, please stop. Stop.”
