“Was?” she repeats.
I can’t argue with that, but I’m not going to explain myself. She’s behaved just as poorly as I have. She might have a get-out-of-jail-free card but that’s not enough to excuse her every sin. She jumped to conclusions earlier. She says she doesn’t want her family name but she still acts like I’m beneath her. So, yeah, I can be nice. For now. The circumstances require it. But I’m reserving final judgment on Adair MacLaine.
“Thank you.” This time her gratitude is small and tinged with apprehension instead of being forced.
“It’s no problem.” I wonder if she’s thanking me for driving or for talking to her. The truth is I don’t know how to distract her, because there are things I should say to her before we get to the hospital. I should tell her that it’s going to suck — walking into the hospital. I should warn her that there’s no way to brace herself for the possibility that her life might change forever tonight. An ache I haven’t felt in a long time settles on my chest.
For a split second, I consider turning the car around and driving in the opposite direction. Driving until she’s so far away from here she forgets where we were headed. I want to give her the beautiful oblivion no one gave me.
Instead, I lie to her. “It’s going to be okay.”
This pries her attention away from the world outside. Adair shoots me a disbelieving look. Can she hear the lie? Does she already know what’s waiting for her?
I think deep down you always know.
I search for some topic of conversation that can take her mind away from the worry.
“Did you grow up here?” Way to go, Sterling. What an original subject.
Disbelief turns to mild annoyance, but whether it’s because she wants to take her mind off things, too, or because she actually can be polite, she answers, “All my life.” She’s not happy about it. There’s a grudging moment of silence before she asks, “You?”
Valmont strikes me as the kind of place where everyone knows everybody. She has to know I’m not from around here. Then again, maybe she’s never spent time with the lower classes of humanity.
“I was born in New York.” I don’t want this to turn into talking about me.
“And you grew up there?” The question rises from her. Until now every sentence she’s uttered has been flat and lifeless. Not this one. It curves and peaks into interest.
“Yeah.” Fuck. I don’t want to talk about my past, but here I am opening a door I’d rather keep shut.
“Why did you come here?”
“That’s a long story.” She waits for me to tell it. I change the subject instead. “What are you going to study?”
First day of college and I’m already falling back on clichés. Now I know why people resort to them: it’s safer to talk about nothing than face real questions.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, her attention fading back to the night outside. I’m losing her again. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to martyr myself to divert her from thinking about her parents.
“What do you like?” Apparently, I am going to keep trying to force small talk.
“What are you? A shrink?” She sighs like I’m burdening her with my presence.
“I was just asking.” Annoyance surges through me. Why does she make it so hard to like her? She’s gorgeous. Obviously, she’s rich, given her last name is on a freaking building. She grew up in Perfectville, USA. What does she have to be angry about? A shrink is exactly what she needs to deal with the crazy bitch inside her.
“Fine.” Her answer catches me by surprise. “English, maybe.”
“Like books?” I ask.
“Like books,” she repeats like she’s talking to a toddler.
“What’s your favorite book?”
She pauses. “That’s a very personal question.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
“What if I don’t have one?” She might be playing coy, but she isn’t thinking about her parents, so I move this over to the win column.
“You want to study English but you don’t have a favorite book?” I’ll goad her into answering.
“I didn’t say I don’t have a favorite book,” she hedges. “I said what if I didn’t.”
She likes to play games. That much is clear. Well, little princess, you might be a player, but I’m the coach. I didn’t survive seven years in the foster care system by following rules. “No favorite book? I’d say you’re going to be a shitty English major.”
Something incredible happens. Her head tilts back, auburn hair spilling across the supple leather seat, her mouth opens and she laughs. It’s a rainbow after a storm. It’s bird song on a spring day. It’s a beautiful sound. “I probably will be anyway.”
“I bet you could get by if you focus on finding a favorite book.”
“I don’t think I have just one,” she says honestly.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“If you had to tell me to read one book, what would it be?” I ask.
“Harry Potter.” She’s dead serious.
It’s really too bad she’s such a bitch.
“Read it.” I tap the steering wheel. “Suggest something I haven’t read.”
“Pride and Prejudice,” she says smugly.
“Read it.” This time I smile.
“You have?”
I glare over at her incredulous look. “Does that surprise you?”
“Yeah,” she admits. “You don’t seem the type.”
“What type do I seem?” A siren goes off in my brain. We’re closing in on dangerous territory. Do I really want to know what a girl like her thinks about me? She doesn’t strike me as the type to spare my feelings.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” She crosses her arms over her chest, which draws my attention to
