Page 74 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
“You don’t have to—” I started, suddenly feeling the need to claw back some semblance of control that had slipped from my fingers over the course of the day.
“I know I don’t,” Dove cut in as she flicked on the blinker and began to merge back onto the road, even though there were no cars around. Rain still pounded against the windshield. The music played on, something quiet now. It sounded like Gracie Abrams.
Something seemed to click in my chest. A tiny click, like the smallest gear realigning. I peeked from the corner of my eye at Dove, who drove with that same calm expression, soaked through, one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually on her thigh.
I had misjudged her. Severely.
She wasn’t just chaos in oversized sweaters and falling-apart Converse. She wasn’t some crazed freak who broke into people’s homes and stole remains. She was... well, she was competent. Sharp. And weirdly thoughtful in a way that made you feel like you’d just been seen without realizing you’d been on display.
She didn’t make a big show of it. She didn’t lay her concern on thick or ask me a hundred questions or fawn over me like I was made of glass.
She just handled things.
Took the jack from the trunk.
Changed the tire.
Paid attention to my meds and reminded me to take care of myself in a voice that didn’t leave room for argument.
It was disarming.
It was infuriating.
And, fuck, it was attractive in a way I desperately needed it not to be.
“No one looks cute getting stuck in a rainstorm. Unless you’re Dove Marley changing a tire,” Liv announced brightly from the back, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
Dove smirked and rolled her eyes. “I look like a drowned raccoon.”
“Hotraccoon,” Liv said. “Just sayin’.”
We didn’t seea single gas station.
Dove kept the heat cranked, and we ended up arriving in Springfield just as the rain began to die down. The sky was darker now, it was getting close to 6:00 p.m. The tire change had set us back, but not by far. I just hoped, deep in my soul, we weren’t too late for a room.
“All right,” Dove said, her voice tired. “What motel was on the schedule?”
“Route 66 Rail Haven,” I said without missing a beat, trying to ignore the goosebumps on my arms and the tremble in my voice from the chill.
Dove nodded and tapped it into her phone.
By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I felt a small flicker of relief, though mostly just fatigue. Neon signage glowed softly overhead as we climbed out, and I eyed the place while Dove opened the trunk to retrieve our bags.
The rooms were arranged in neat little rows, each with its own awning and flowerbeds that looked decently maintained. Compared to last night’s sad excuse for a motel, this wasn’t all that bad.
“Seems clean,” Liv commented with a click of her tongue. “No one’s died here, for sure.”
We trudged into the office, wet shoes squeaking across the tiled floor. A man sat behind the counter, the kind who looked like he should’ve retired in 2013 but was still clinging to the grind out of spite. He gave us a once-over and frowned.
“Only one room left,” he said, as if it were a threat.
“We’ll take it,” I said without hesitation.
He slid the paperwork across the counter. I paid, and Dove swiped the key.
At this point, we were both moving on autopilot, trudging toward our room with heavy feet that slapped against the wet pavement.
Dove inserted the key, the lock giving with a heavy click, and we stepped into the room.
