Page 73 of Stranger Danger

“Britney, ladies and gents,” the woman on the radio says, warm and cheerful. “We’re ten minutes deep in your nonstop morning commute jam session, but first we have breaking—”

Ira slams his palm against the knob before she can continue, and the cabin falls into silence.

I lean back against the headrest, pulling the scratchy brown blanket off my shoulders and over my lap. I’m still damp, my cargo pants a thousand pounds on my legs, but at least I can keep my eyes open for longer than five minutes at a time.

He clears his throat. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts,” I mumble.

“Give me a number, Beckett. One to ten on a pain scale.”

“Is eleven an option?”

“Yeah.” He digs out another handful of neon orange snacks. “There’s Tylenol down there. Do you feel like you’re going to get sick? Scale of one to ten.”

My stomach feels fine, but the idea of food throws me off. The smell of fake cheese is a lot for 8:30 A.M.

I shrug. “Four.”

“What about lightheaded?” he asks.

“Three.”

He grabs the pop from the middle console, holding it against the wheel. The bottle cap hisses when he twists it off, and I watch his throat work as he drains over half in one go.

“I’ll be okay once I sleep, Ira. I think my body wants to be horizontal.”

“No.” He shoots me a glare. His hazel eyes are shadowed under the cap, but the dark circles are so deep that it makes my heart sink. “You’ll be okay when I say you’re okay. Until then, strap in. We still have thirty hours until you’re in the clear.”

We’ve been on the road for forty-five hours.

The same amount of time as our “honeymoon” phase, except this time, there’s no skipping classes. No fucking for two hours before we collapse and put on a mindless, 70s horror movie and share room temperature pop.

I fold my arms over my chest and look out the passenger window.

I’m supposed to be the responsible, mature one—it’s the easiest role for me to fill, and it’s benefitted both of us in the past. Ira has the crazy, off the wall ideas and hyper energy that keeps us running at full speed. We work so well together because we fill in the gaps the other person is missing.

But now I’m failing.

Badly.

Knowing I put all of this on him hurts in a way I didn’t know was possible.

“Tylenol,” he says. “Take two.”

As soon as we’re on solid ground I’m buying a ring.

Chapter 19

Ira

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

I roll over and smack the alarm clock once—twice when it doesn’t get the message the first time; it coos this sad little dove sound and goes quiet.

“Two,” Beckett mumbles groggily from behind me before I can even open my mouth.

“Two over—” My jaw cracks as I yawn. “Overall?”