Right Kind of Wrong(12)

Okay, at the next stop, we’re turning around. End of story. And co-ed road trip.

I fidget with one of the rings on my left hand, spinning it around my finger as I think up a smooth way to inform Jack that our joyride has come to an end. He’s going to pitch a fit, I already know it.

Clearing my throat in the pleasant silence we’ve shared for the past, oh, twenty minutes, I use my sternest voice and say, “Listen, Jack—”

“No.”

“No?” I glance at him. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.” He fixes his gaze out the windshield. “You were going to say this was a mistake and that you’re turning this car around, or something to that effect, so I’m saying no. It’s too late to change your mind.” He looks out the side window. “And besides, I need to get to Louisiana. I don’t have time for your fickle behavior, Jenna. Not today.”

With his face turned away, I can’t read his expression, but his tone tells me all I need to know. That was a jab, meant to pierce the thickest shields of denial I’ve built around my heart, and it shot straight through each one.

It shouldn’t hurt the way it does, the past, the truth. But I can’t seem to guard myself against Jack’s thoughts on how I’ve handled—or rather, refused to handle—the topic of us.

“Please, tell me how you really feel,” I say bitterly. “Don’t be subtle on my account.”

A beat passes where he doesn’t look at me. “I’m never subtle.”

I snort. And isn’t that the truth.

I could fall for his bait—that’s what it is, bait to start a long-overdue conversation—but that would mean bringing up feelings and fears and, even worse, what happened last year, and I don’t have the heart or the stomach for any of that. So instead I settle for blaring angry-girl music on the radio.

Jack sits still for exactly fifteen seconds before changing the station to something akin to angry-boy music. Like that’s happening. I change it back. So does he.

“Quit it, or I will voodoo you so you don’t wake up in the morning,” I snap.

“Already threatening to kill me?” He sighs dramatically. “I thought for sure we’d make it until sundown before you played the voodoo card.”

I ignore him and tune the radio to ’90s rock. “My car. My music.”

Alanis Morissette comes on singing “You Oughta Know,” and Jack groans. For a split second, I feel for him. I know how much he despises Alanis Morissette.

“Can we please listen to something else?” he says. “I swear I’m not trying to be a dick this time.”

I lift a brow. “Oh, so you admit you were trying to be a dick a second ago?”

“Of course.” He shrugs. “Angry-girl music? Come on. Could you be any more obvious?”

I try not to overthink that as I flick a hand at him. “You’ll listen to polka if I so desire. That’s the cost of inviting yourself into my vehicle.”

He looks at me. “Fine, diva. I’d rather listen to polka than to a scorned woman screaming about how all men are no good.”

With a sugar-sweet tone, I say, “Too close to home?”

He smiles sharply. “You tell me.”

Yeaaah. There’s no way I’m spending another hour with this man, let alone another week. We have more unresolved issues than the characters on Gossip Girl.

“That’s it,” I say, veering right for the nearest exit ramp.

“What are you going to do, pull the car over and give me a firm talking-to?” he mocks.

“Ha. We’re way beyond talking.”

He looks out the window again. “Oh, I know.”

I glare at him. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You keep alluding to shit, trying to provoke me, and I’m done.”

“What?” He crinkles his brow in confusion. “No one in their right mind would try to provoke you, Jenna. You’re like a caged cat in heat. All claws and teeth. You’re already provoked—and you have been since the moment I met you. So why don’t you just calm down and get back on the freeway.” He looks around. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you where we are.” I point a finger in the air and lift my chin, utterly pissed that he just referred to me as a cat in heat. I whip into the parking lot of Willow Inn and skid to a stop. “We’re at your final destination.”

Thank God Willow Inn is out here in the middle of nowhere and, therefore, an ideal drop-off station for unwanted passengers. I couldn’t have handled one more second with Jack and his laid-back attitude.