Page 34 of Heartache Duet

“Insane?” he finishes, his back pressed against the door, as if afraid of me.

His reaction makes me giggle.

And the spray of deodorant makes me stop. “You called a truce!”

The light turns green, and we’re moving again. “I value my life more than a truce,” he murmurs, and resprays me.

I reach across the car to grab his forearm, but he’s too strong, and he damn well knows it. “Give me that stupid thing!”

“Ava, you’re going to make me veer off the fucking road,” he laughs.

“No, you are. Give it!” I can’t stop laughing.

“Fine,” he says, handing it over.

I throw it out his open window.

He hits the brakes so fast my seatbelt catches. Then he turns to me with a seriousness that has me clamping my lips together to stop from busting out a cackle. “That’s littering, Miss Diaz.” He motions his head outside. “Off you go.”

He has a point. I roll my eyes but open the door. There are no other cars on the road, thank God, and so I quickly find the can, pick it up, and start back for his car, gripping the can tight. No way I’m letting him have it again. I place my hand on the handle, but the car moves forward a few feet. “Are you serious?” I yell, jogging forward to keep up. I reach for the handle again. He drives off again. This time farther. “Connor!” I can hear him laughing, see him eyeing me in the rearview. This happens three more times, his laughter getting louder, and mine becoming more uncontrollable. It’s been years, years since I’ve felt this way. Laughed this hard. Felt this free.

I don’t bother moving when he does it again. Instead, I stand still, my hands on my hips, my foot tapping. “I don’t mind walking,” I shout. A lie. Fuck walking. I’d sooner call Trevor to pick me up.

The car roars to life, and just when I think he’s going to bail, I see him reach across the car to open the door for me. “Truce,” he yells.

“Your truces mean nothing!” I shout back.

“Triple truce!” he counters.

I walk toward the car slowly, anticipating his next move. When I get to the open door, I see him watching me, his head dipped, his bottom lip between his teeth. I gracelessly sit and quickly shut the door, deodorant still in my hand.

“You’re an asshole,” I say playfully, spraying him with his chosen weapon.

He chuckles, starts driving again. “What can I say? I like to watch you run.”

* * *

It turns out Connor comes to school this time on Mondays because he has a short practice. I tell him the truth about why I do, to see Miss Turner. He simply nods. When I ask if he’s curious as to why I was seeing her, he shrugs, says, “I mean, it’s pretty obvious you’re a sociopath.”

I spray his entire body.

He laughs it off, cranks his window up, and breathes it in as if it’s fresh air.

If anyone’s a sociopath here, it’s him.

* * *

Connor and I walk together to Miss Turner’s office, as it’s on the way to the gym. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, my hand on the doorknob. I twist. Push. Nothing happens. Connor laughs, peels off a note stuck on the office window.

Miss Turner is ill. No sessions today.

“Seriously?” I groan, slamming my open hand on the door. And because I’m an idiot, I try the door again, my forehead touching the timber. “Doesn’t she know about texts or emails?”

Connor says, sticking the note back up, “Yeah, you sure seem like you could’ve used that extra hour to sleep in, cranky.”

I narrow my eyes at him, backhand his brick wall of a stomach. “Go to your stupid practice.”

He feigns hurt, only for a second, before asking, “What are you going to do?”

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