“Sweet! Thanks, Becky. Oh, I see my little sis. I’ll call ya soon!”
And then he’s off, leaving me alone with the silent man beside me. With a will that is born of sheer bravado I raise my eyes and keep the smile on my face, only holding my breath when our eyes meet and hold, staying connected so long I feel a renewed blush heat my cheeks.
“Uh, so welcome back? You look different?”
Everything I say comes out a question, something I’ve done since I was sixteen—three years into my crush—and have yet to rid myself of.
I can’t help it. Whenever I’m in his presence every pep talk and shred of common sense I possess flies out the window, to be replaced by the gawky nerd he’s always known.
“Thanks, imp. You’re looking all grown up yourself,” he drawls, and I shiver, blushing all over when his eyes run the length of my body and back up, a smile back in place. “Still the same though.”
Every warm feeling I possess evaporates all at once, and I fight back the hurt, not wanting him to see how much it hurts. To Devon I’ll always be the plump little dweeb, and nothing I do will change that.
Two years ago I’d actually gone on a diet and succeeded at losing ten pounds. Grey had invited him over for the holidays, and I’d had this fantasy that if I could look the part and somehow change my personality he’d finally see me.
I’d been sick that year, thanks to the extremes I’d gone to in order to lose weight, and gone against doctors’ orders and traveled back home, so excited for him to see my transformation.
He’d called the day before Thanksgiving and begged off, and I’d felt so shitty I’d eaten enough for three people and slunk up to my room, sick to my stomach.
Now every time I think of the things I’d done to my body to be good enough that he’d finally recognize me, I get so pissed at myself I can’t breathe.
That emotion does what nothing else has the power to, and instead of stammering and tittering like an idiot I give him my stoniest glare and seal my lips, cocking my head toward the doors.
“We should get going.”
“Have I said something to upset you, imp?”
“Nope. I’m just tired. I worked all day, and then I had to ask my boss for time off to come get you. Not one of my top twenty things to do before I die, I’ll tell you that. Come on, we better get going. Mama and the gang are expecting your hallowed return.”
Here’s the thing. I have two settings: sweet, kind, bumbling Becky, and the hell’s spawn Becky who rips shreds into people when she’s hurt or peeved.
A minute ago I’d been my usual self, and now I’m the product of Devon’s sardonic drawl, as if I needed the reminder that I’m a little less than perfection itself.
“Did I say something, imp?”
I keep walking and ignore his question, because honestly, since when would he give a hoot about whether he’s said something wrong or hurt my feelings?
It’s only once we’ve cleared the automated doors and I’m unlocking the trunk that I turn back to him, back in that calm, serene place my shrink—the one I’d gone to as a teen—had taught me to find.
According to Doc Mallory, I can overcome anything by channeling my emotions in a constructive way. I just need to breathe and keep telling myself that I can only get hurt if I allow it to matter.
I’ve survived over two ears of Abi living on that theory alone. I can survive two hours in a car with a man I’m not even sure I want to like if I just keep that in mind.
“You want to get something to eat before we hit the road, or no?” I ask, unlocking the doors and sliding into my compact little Fiesta.
I almost laugh when he’s folded almost double and has to fiddle around for the seat adjuster before unsnapping himself from his pretzel-like slouch.
“No. Thanks, but I ate on the plane,” he mutters, glaring at my twinkling eyes. “Could your car be any bloody smaller?”
“Well, yeah. My grandpa gave me this sweet little old school Mini for my eighteenth birthday, but Grey went nuts and started yelling about semi-trucks and cardboard boxes and, well, I didn’t make it past the driveway before this one replaced it.”
Too bad, because that hot pink little cutie had stolen my heart from the start. She’s still sitting in my folks’ garage, awaiting my return.
“Buckle up, Brit. I plan on making good time,” I warn before shifting into gear and hitting the gas.
His yell and white-knuckled grip on the dashboard lift my spirits considerably, and by the time I make it to my parents’ place I’ve loosened up enough to have sung along to three Spice Girls songs and a lot of Jessi Jay.