Page 7 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

We ride in silence for a while, rain tapping against the windshield. Then I catch her staring again—this time at my hands, my jaw, my ink. She’s not even pretending to be subtle.

“You always stare that hard, or am I just lucky?”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away.

“I was trying to figure out what your tattoos mean.”

“They mean I don’t always make great choices.”

“Any better than picking me up?”

“No.”

She tucks her arms tighter around herself and looks out the window again. We don’t speak for the rest of the ride.

Not until I pull off the exit she calls out, leading to a run-down strip of a motel that’s falling apart at the seams.

She straightens in her seat.

“You sure this is it?” I ask.

“It’s temporary.”

I kill the engine. She hands me back my wallet.

“Thank you for not being a serial killer.”

“You’re welcome.”

She unbuckles, then pauses. “I know you said you don’t usually help people like this…”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I don’t want to owe you.”

“You don’t.”

She opens the door, then looks at me again.

“What if I did want to give you my name now?”

I stare at her a second too long.

“Don’t,” I say. “Not yet.”

She nods and steps out of the car. At the motel door, she pauses and glances back.

I reach into the glovebox, tear off a crumpled receipt, and scrawl my number. I get out, walk over, and press it into her hand.

“Call me in a few days,” I say. “If you’re still alive.”

She stands still, blushing and staring at me like she’s not going to go inside, like she’s going to tempt me to end this night differently.

“Please go inside now, ”I say, taking one last look at her, “before I ruin you.”

I turn around and leave first before I do something even dumber.

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