Page 25 of Joker

I’m still staring out the window when Joker finally speaks. “Lexi get carsick?”

The question is so practical and so startlingly normal that it takes me a second to realize I’m supposed to answer.

I turn my head and blink at him. “What?”

His eyes stay on the road. “Carsick.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “No. Usually not.”

He nods once, absorbing the information like it matters. There’s no follow-up.

No why. No what else does she do when she’s nervous? No invitation to explain myself or my daughter or my life.

Just a question, answered, and filed away.

A few miles later he asks, “Need to stop soon?”

I glance at the dark highway stretching ahead of us. “No. I’m okay.”

Again, just a nod.

And then, a little while after that, “Want coffee?”

I almost laugh at the random practicality of it.

Not because it’s funny, exactly. More because I’m realizing, piece by piece, that this man’s version of concern appears to come in the form of logistics instead of pity, and for some reason that makes it easier to breathe.

“Maybe later,” I say.

“Alright.”

That’s it.

Nothing invasive. Nothing probing. Nothing that feels like he’s trying to pull information out of me under the guise of concern.

He asks what matters for the drive and leaves the rest alone.

It should probably feel impersonal. Instead, it feels strangely respectful.

I shift again and shiver realizing that I’m cold.

Not deeply. Not enough to shiver from the temperature inside the truck, because the cab is warm enough. But there’s a chill under my skin that has nothing to do with air conditioning and everything to do with adrenaline slowly wearing off while my body tries to decide whether it’s allowed to unclench yet.

Still, the shiver catches me by surprise.

Joker notices immediately. I don’t know how. Maybe because he notices everything. Maybe because I’m sitting close enough that the movement isn’t subtle in the passenger seat. Whatever the reason, he glances over once, then reaches behind his own seat without making a big deal out of it.

“Here.” He pulls a dark gray sweatshirt from the back and holds it toward me one-handed while keeping the truck steady with the other.

I stare at it for a second too long.

His sweatshirt.

The thing is absurdly large and clearly worn, the sleeves pushed up where it’s been folded or tossed around in the back. It shouldn’t matter. It definitely shouldn’t make my pulse do that weird little stutter.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

He keeps it there. “You’re shivering.”