Page 11 of You + Me – Against the World

“You know, I can’t control what my ‘hunk of junk’ does. It’s unpredictable.”

“Well, you know, I can’t always control what my pepper spray does either when it escapes from my Chanel bag…”

***

For the last hour, we’ve been talking nonstop about college and classes. A lot about my life, a little about his, about the other freshmen—the ones he can’t stand and the ones he doesn’t mind—about Abrams and the project we still haven’t figured out, about movies he loves and the ones I do, which he often finds lame and clichéd.

And for the last hour, I’ve been telling him I need to go home, clutching my phone, which shows dozens of missed calls. From my parents, my brother, Tim, and Clémentine.

My cell phone continues to vibrate in the palm of my hand, lighting up the dark cab of the pickup. Vadim finds it amusing and challenges me again to stay. I tell him about the lie I cooked up with my best friend; he can’t stop laughing. I pretend to be offended, and he softens.

For the last hour, I’ve forgotten about everything. My mother, who must be worried sick. My father, who is going to murder me. My boyfriend, who is going to be mad at me. Until now, I didn’t know what freedom tasted like. The thrill of the forbidden. But I can already tell I’ve acquired a taste for it—and that there will be a price to pay.

And now, it really is time to go.

After getting out of the truck a few houses down from mine, I walk around to stand in front of the open window on the driver’s side. I nervously fidget with a button on my cardigan, just to give myself something to do. I’m having a hard time leaving him.

“Those were the longest thirty minutes of my life,” Vadim murmurs, looking at me.

“Sorry you had such a terrible evening.”

“A true ordeal. I’m relieved it’s over.”

You’re lying.

“Same here. I think I hate you even more than I thought.”

I’m lying, too.

“Good. We don’t need to do it again.”

“Agreed.”

“Perfect. See you tomorrow, Lancaster.”

“Good night, Arcadi.”

Through the window, he suddenly grabs the hem of my cardigan and pulls my face close to his. My heart drums in my chest, and my legs can barely support me. For a moment, his mouth hovers near mine, before drifting to my ear, where he whispers, “Bet you don’t have the guts to do this again tomorrow night.” He brushes my cheek with his lips, lets me go, and then drives off without waiting for my answer.

What could I possibly have said anyhow?

I arrive home a full hour late.

My parents are there.

But my mind isn’t.

My father’s voice is already echoing throughout the house. It doesn’t bother me. The hour I just spent was worth every lousy moment to come.

5

I’d never had such a long, deep conversation with my parents as I did last night. After my father finished going off at me and my mother was done lecturing me for making her panic, they finally calmed down. I was able to explain to them that I had lost track of time and that I was sorry for worrying them. But also that I needed more freedom. That I had always been a sensible girl, worthy of their trust, and that it was high time they let me be eighteen. Not twelve.

I have no idea where I found all that boldness, that determination.

Okay, that’s not true.

His name is Vadim Arcadi…