Page 25 of Malaise

His head swivels between looking at me and the road. “Like what?” The light curiosity has left his tone, replaced by a dark warning.

“That you’re trouble, dangerous, and I should stay away from you.”

“And yet you called me to come pick you up.”

“And yet I did.”

His tone is low, husky, and nothing short of suggestive. “Says something, doesn’t it.”

“I guess it could,” I whisper.

The back of his hand smacks my thigh to get my attention, and he wiggles his fingers, palm up, when I stare down at it. I tentatively place my hand in his and give a little squeak on the inside when he gently squeezes.

“Answer me one thing, Meg: do you feel like you’re in danger when you’re with me?”

“No.”

“Look at me when you say it.”

He glances over every so often until I meet his gaze and repeat with utter conviction, “No.”

“Tell me then why their narrow-minded opinion matters?”

I drop my head back on the seat and sigh. I don’t know why I give a fuck about what those bitches have to say. Why does it matter? Why does any of this matter? Six months ago I could have sat down and rattled off what I wanted to do at the end of the school year: apply for the veterinary course at university and find a flat in the city miles away from this hell. But then reality came along and slapped me around. Although my parents are too broke to afford the tuition fees, by government standards we’re also too rich for me to apply for a student allowance. Which leaves only a loan, and I don’t know if I’m ready to take on that kind of debt. What if I couldn’t get a job? How could I repay it and pay for my living costs, given I wouldn’t be at home anymore?

And then Den.

Damn you, Den.

Without him here giving me that nudge I need to believe in myself, I’ve lost the will to even try. What use is trying for a higher education when all I’ll probably do for the rest of my life is prick my fingers changing needles on an industrial sewing machine?

“You figured it out yet?” Carver pulls into a free park at the truck stop, between a campervan and a compact car.

“Not really. I know it shouldn’t matter what they think, but that doesn’t stop the stuff they say, and the shit they do, from hurting.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He reaches out and lightly taps beneath my chin with his index finger. “But you don’t need to harbour that crap when you know it’s all shit, either.” He kills the engine and swivels in his seat. “Did you talk to your parents the other night?”

I let loose a completely unladylike snort and stare out the side window. “It didn’t go well.”

“What happened?” His brow furrows when I glance his way, and he leans a shoulder into the back of his seat.

“We talked, as in, they told me what they know about the accident and that, but we didn’t talk if you know what I mean? Like, they never asked why I went out, how I felt, or even what happened to my arm.” I lift the bandaged hand and stare at it. “It’s like none of it mattered, like we were just people who only know each other in passing discussing some world event. It was fucked.”

“Maybe they’re feeling a little disconnected?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Just don’t make any rash decisions while you’re all hurting.”

“I guess.”

“And for fuck’s sake, don’t listen to what those idiots at your school say. They’re just trying to get a rise out of you.”

I frown and turn to face him. He wears a look of genuine concern, as though he’s worried about what Amelia and Cassie’s words might do to me. “They said some pretty harsh stuff. It’s hard to just let it go.”

“Like what?”

“That they’d kill themselves too if they had to live with me.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “But Den didn’t kill himself, right? It was an accident.”

“Right.”