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He lifts up my chin, so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “That good, short stack?”
I shrug. “Is what it is.”
“What do you want to do tonight?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Movies and smoothies.” I giggle. “I have a feeling I’ll be grounded though.”
“Want me to come over and flash these baby blues at Grandma?”
“If I thought it would work, I’d drag you home with me.”
“She can’t resist me.” He bobs his brows.
I push his chest, and he staggers. “You’re a dumbass.”
“I think you got that backward,” a voice says behind me.
“Get the fuck outta here, Libby,” Clint growls.
Cory saunters up next to Libby and drapes his arm over her shoulders. “Now, that’s not very nice, Clint.”
I clench my fists at my sides and step forward, but Clint grabs my arm, holding me back. “They aren’t worth it.”
“Why do you waste your time with this idiot, Clint?” Miranda asks haughtily. “Your parents must be real proud of the trash you hang out with.”
Clint unlocks his car doors, and we both get in, shutting out their heckling. He peels out of the parking lot and heads toward home.
“They’re wrong, you know,” he comments after a few minutes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deflect.
Clint shakes his head. “Don’t do that, Skye. Not with me.”
“What do you want me to say?” I cry. “That I know they’re just words. Sticks and stones and all that bullshit.”
Clint reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Shortcake, you’re the nicest, sweetest, and smartest girl I know.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I mean it.”
I roll my eyes. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only to you.” He brushes his thumb over my hand. “Grades don’t mean shit. Your grandma and I know the truth. You. Are. Smart.”
“Thanks, Clint.” I look over at him and see a truck heading straight for us. “Watch ou?—”
Tires screech, metal crunches, and glass shatters around us. My head bounces off the side of the door. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to clear my vision.
“Clint… Clint… Clint!”
He’s slumped forward, and blood gushes from his head. Sirens blare all around me. It feels like hours before they make it to us, but it probably isn’t more than fifteen minutes. Clint still hasn’t woken up when the paramedics pull me from the wreckage.
“He’s not breathing!” a firefighter yells, pulling Clint through the window.
I struggle to get off the gurney. “No, Clint.”
I watch them continue to perform CPR on him as they load him into the ambulance, and I pray for God not to be that cruel. I lost my parents the same way. Drunk driver, in the middle of the day, took them out when they were on their way to a school conference about my grades.
