Page 38 of Joker

Joker glances in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“Gummy bear funny.”

“That’s my specialty.”

She nods like this is a very important conclusion. Then she settles back again, Bunny tucked under her chin, juice box still in her hand.

I stare at Joker for a second longer than I should. Because the way he handled that was so…easy.

So natural. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just competence.

And something about that does something dangerous to my nervous system.

Because men like him are not supposed to be good with kids. Men like him are supposed to be rough, unpredictable, distant.

And yet—

He just took care of my daughter without making it a thing. Without making me feel like I owed him something for it. Without making her feel like she was a burden.

That matters more than it should.

He starts the truck again, and we pull back onto the road.

The darkness closes in around us once more, the gas station lights fading behind us like they never existed.

Lexi finishes her juice and falls asleep again not long after, Bunny still clutched tight in her arms.

I settle back into the seat, my body finally loosening in a way I don’t quite trust.

But it’s there. That feeling. Quiet. Unfamiliar.

As the miles stretch out ahead of us and the world outside the truck disappears into darkness again, I realize something slowly, carefully, like I’m afraid to say it too loudly and scare it away.

I feel safer here.

In this truck. With this man.

Than I have anywhere in a very long time.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

I don’t realize how tightly wound I’ve been the whole drive until Bartsville finally comes into view.

It hits me all at once. Not gradually. Not in some subtle, manageable way.

One second I’m still scanning every mirror, every set of headlights, every stretch of dark highway like the wrong car might materialize out of nowhere if I let my attention slip for half a heartbeat. The next, the familiar turnoff appears, the road narrows in exactly the way I know it will, and the first distant glow of the clubhouse lights cuts through the trees.

And something inside me loosens so suddenly it almost pisses me off. Because I shouldn’t be this relieved.

It was a job.

A pickup. A favor. A drive.

That’s all it was supposed to be.

But somewhere between Louisiana and Alabama and all the dark road in between, I stopped treating it like cargo and started treating it like something that could be lost if I wasn’t careful enough.

That realization settles under my skin with sharp little teeth.