Page 70 of Catcher

“Yes.”

“Not just today?”

“No.”

He nods, his gaze fixed on Ruby. “She’s always been stubborn.”

“I noticed.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Gets that from her mother.”

I glance at him.

He looks back, and the faint humor dies fast. “Keep my girl safe.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The next morning, we are up and out the door by seven. The silence between us isn’t new. It’s been hanging there since lunch at her parents’. She’s mad, and I know it. Truth is, I don’t mind the quiet. Makes it easier to keep my head where it needs to be, the bigger picture. Her safety. That’s what matters right now, whether she likes me or not.

Ruby slides into the passenger seat without a word. I get behind the wheel, turn the engine over, and the vents push out nothing but warm air while my jaw tightens.

I back out of her driveway as she stares out the window, arms folded, mouth set like she’s building an argument and waiting for the right second to throw it at me.

I make it three blocks before my phone comes out. I hit Riggs’ name and put it to my ear.

“Talk to me,” Riggs answers.

“I’m taking Ruby to school. Need someone to relieve me there in thirty. I’m getting her car fixed.” Ruby turns her head slowly, eyes narrowing the second the words leave my mouth.

Riggs doesn’t miss a beat. “Done.”

I hang up. Ruby is staring at me like she’s considering committing a crime with her bare hands. “You are not taking my car.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes,” I say, pulling onto the main road. “I am.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I did.”

Her fingers dig into her purse strap. “This is exactly what I mean. You bulldoze.”

“Your AC’s been out for months. You need maintenance done on it. You’re driving in the Louisiana heat that can drop a grown man, with your brother’s bullshit circling you. You need something more reliable, so yeah, Ruby, I’m fixing the damn car.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She lets out a frustrated sound and turns toward the window again. Silence stretches between us. Hot air whips through the windows, loosening strands of her hair. She smells faintly of soap and something soft under the heat, and I hate that I notice. More than that, I hate that sitting in this car with her feels more dangerous than taking a bullet.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“Acting as if you care and then acting like I’m a problem you resent.”