Page 44 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

“You do have a lot of shit.”

“You have a lot of shit too,” I shot back. “You just have more shelves and closets to put it all in.”

“Yeah, you probably got me there. Surprised you only packed the one book.”

“Two, technically, since you made me start that one that’s been on my TBR for about a year and a half, and now I’m hooked. But I brought my e-reader.” His lip curled at that. “Not an e-book fan?”

“I’m sure you noticed I’m a physical media kind of person.”

“I get that. I’ll always prefer a physical book, but when you’re limited with space, ebooks are a great option. It was basically the only way I could feed my book addiction all my childhood. Did you pack any books?”

“One.”

“Just one?”

“It’s five hundred pages. I figured I wouldn’t have a lot of time on a road trip anyway.”

That was true. Especially if he went ahead and continued to drive. Which I would be completely okay with.

Maybe this was why I never really loved driving myself. I was raised to be a passenger princess. To handle the music, read books, nap, and point out road signs or cute animals. Though, I wasn’t sure a guy like Gavino cared about that kind of thing.

“Do you like animals?”

“What? Where did that come from?”

“I always used to point out animals to my dad while he drove. And I will probably be doing it on this drive too. I was just curious. You don’t have a pet.”

“Not for lack of my cousin trying to force me to get one.”

“So you don’t like animals.”

“I like animals more than most people.”

“But?”

“But I wouldn’t look forward to the forced social interactions that would come with walking a dog.”

“Which is why cats are such a great option for introverts. You don’t even need to leave the apartment.”

“Never considered a cat. You don’t have a pet.”

“They’re not allowed in my building. Not even caged pets. Which I’m not sure they’re actually allowed to tell me I can’t have. But, yeah, I’d love a cat. I used to find them at truck stops all the time as a kid, and I hated that after I fed them and loved on them, we had to drop them off at a shelter to find a home.”

“So you drove with your old man a lot?”

“All of the time after my mom died. Though there was one summer when he dropped me off with my maternal grandparents, who seemed no happier to have me than I was to be there, so I wasn’t sure of the reasons there.”

And, come to think of it, that was when I’d had my first real instance of an anxiety attack. The night after watching my father drive away, leaving me with people that I only knew from the occasional phone call on holidays. Whose house smelled like stale cigarettes and mothballs. Who had really strict rules about food and bedtimes and chores.

“You didn’t ask?”

“My father said he thought kids needed more structure than the road. But after the sixth week, I think he knew that I was not handling it well.” I paused, not knowing why, but feeling compelled to tell him. “That was when the anxiety attacks started. But I had no idea what they were. And my grandparents were old school, so they would just punish me or tell me I was being an attention whore.”

“Was your dad better about them?”

“They almost went away when I was back with him. But when I left for college, that was when things really ramped up.”

“The fuck would possess you to live in a big city when you have anxiety? Everything is too loud, bright, rank, and crowded.”