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“Thanks.” I sniffled, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. “I, uh, I gotta go.”
I stumbled backward, my stilettos scraping across the asphalt, until I finally found the door handle and jerked it open. Just as my ass hit the passenger seat, Ken slid behind the wheel next to me, looking utterly cool and unaffected—by the funeral, by the sight of his girlfriend in the arms of another man, by the mascara streaks under her eyes, by all of it.
“Who was that?” he asked, shifting the car into reverse.
“Hans,” I mumbled, staring straight ahead with my arms folded across my chest.
As Ken pulled out of his parking space, I noticed Hans getting into his little black BMW, alone.
Guess he and Goth Girl didn’t ride together.
The thought was a tiny consolation.
I waited for Ken to act jealous, grill me with questions about my tall, tattooed ex, but he didn’t. I waited for him to acknowledge how upset I was, maybe ask if I was okay, but nope. All he did was keep his eyes on the road as he reached over and switched on the mother…fucking…radio.
Kaboom.
With that simple click, Ken had unwittingly detonated the bomb that had been ticking away in his passenger seat.
“No,” I snapped, reaching over and turning it right back off. “No! We’re not gonna sit here and listen to fucking Incubus and pretend like everything’s fine. It’s not fine!”
“Brooke—”
I turned in my seat, facing him full-on. Anger swelled in my veins and made my temples throb. “Jason’s dead, and you don’t care!”
Ken didn’t say anything. He didn’t argue with me or defend himself. He simply clenched his square jaw and stared straight ahead and placed the final imaginary brick in the wall between us, shutting me out completely.
“Oh, perfect!” I threw my hands up. “You haven’t touched me since we found out about Jason, and now, you’re not gonna talk to me either? That’s great. Super supportive, Ken. Way to be there.”
“Jesus Christ! What do you want from me?” he finally snapped back.
Oh, it’s on.
I leaned forward, salivating over his jugular. “I want you to have a fucking feeling!” I snarled, thrusting my hand in the direction of the funeral home behind us. “I want you to put your arm around me when I’m sad and hold my hand in public and pick me up and spin me around when I come over just because you’re so goddamn happy to see me!”
“I’m sorry I’m a shitty boyfriend!” Ken barked, causing me to slink back in my seat. “This is why I don’t do fucking relationships!” His tone lost its edge just as quickly as it had appeared. “I don’t know why I can’t do all this touchy-feely bullshit you want, but I just…can’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I’m fucking autistic or something.”
Now, it was my turn to be silent.
Autistic? No. Ken?
I ran through a mental list of disorders from my clinical psychology coursework. Symptoms. Ages of onset. Prognoses. Evaluation tools. I’d just assumed Ken was an asshole, but maybe there was more to it. An autism spectrum disorder? A personality disorder? Reactive attachment disorder? I was already pretty sure the stubborn asshole had oppositional defiant disorder.
“I could test you.”
For the first time since our fight had begun, Ken looked at me. His brows were knotted in confusion. His eyes guarded and skeptical.
“I have to do a full case study before I graduate. I could do it on you, if you want. It would take a lot of time though. A full psychological evaluation can take weeks.”
Ken flicked his eyes back to the road. “And this would help you with school?”
“Yeah, it would.”
But, mostly, it would help me figure out what the fuck is going on inside your head.
Ken sighed and glanced at me again. This time, his features didn’t look guarded or skeptical. They looked downright scared. “Okay.”
He nodded, turning away from me again. I noticed his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.
“If it’ll help.”
