Page 31 of Wrecked

“I wasn’t the one driving!” I shout. “When are you going to get off your ass and actually look for Victoria? She’s been missing for a week, and no one seems to give a shit.”

“Why do you? If she really did crash and bolt, you should be happy she’s off somewhere, getting high and dying in a corner.”

“Just because she’s a bitch doesn’t mean she deserves to get hurt. She should be in rehab getting help.”

Adam lets out an audible gasp of air. His chest falls as his grip lightens on the wheel. “No, it doesn’t.”

I let out a heavy breath and turn away from him.

I know I’m a good person, yet he seems to try to knock me down every time. It’s the stares, the glares. The way he looks when he sees me out with my friends and bites his jaw. How he purposefully walks over when I’m pumping gas to make sure my registration and inspection are up-to-date because I’m incapable of doing so on my own. At least once a week, I catch him following me in his cruiser, trying to catch me speeding or running a red light. It’s in the way he’s always giving disapproving looks at my attire and the way he practically stalks my friends and gives them hell when they step out of line in the slightest. He’s been the bane of my existence for seven years, but if he thinks he’s going to tear this girl down, then he has another thing coming to him.

“We dissect failure a lot more than we dissect success,” I say toward my window.

“Those are profound words.”

“They’re McConaughey’s words,” I say. I see his mouth start to move, so I hold my hand up to halt him from uttering a word. “Before you make some snide comment about how I’m not smart enough to come up with my own quote, let me just tell you that I’m sick of it—sick of you always finding the flaws in me instead of noticing anything good. I don’t need your approval, but I certainly don’t want your condescension either. I’m tired of trying to show you how spectacular I am. Because I’m pretty damn amazing in case you haven’t noticed.”

Adam exits off the highway, and I try to keep my lip from quivering. I look at the dashboard, the floor, the seat that I’m on. I look at anything but him. The inside of his truck is freaking pristine. It defeats the purpose of having this kind of car. It’s supposed to be messy and stained. But, no, not Adam Reingold. He has to have the squeaky clean pickup. The squeakiest, cleanest pickup in all of Ohio.

I hate him.

And I hate his truck.

We turn onto my street, and as soon as he pulls up to my house, my hand is on the handle.

I’m out of the car, but before I close the door, he calls my name, “Leah.”

I stop, my hand on the metal frame. I’m standing in the open area between the door and the car. I don’t want to look at him. So, I don’t. I stare at the black pavement beneath my feet. He’s not talking. But he called my name, so obviously he has something to say, but he’s not.

Despite my better judgment, I look up. Those coal-like irises are slightly glazed, and he’s biting his damn lip.

“We dissect failure a lot more than we dissect success,” he says.

I furrow my brows.

He places his elbow on the center console and leans toward me. “What you did today? That was…great.” His voice is deep, low, and full of meaning.

My heart drops a little into my stomach. I look to the side and breathe in to make sure I’m not showing him how much that simple admission means to me.

Or how confused it makes me.

Stepping aside, I close the door. It’s probably not the correct response to his words, but it’s what I did. I turn around and try not to trip up the walkway to my house. His truck is still on the curb as I climb the stairs to my house, insert my key into the lock, and then open the door.

I walk inside, close the door behind me, and press my back up against it. I’m inside for what feels like an eternity before I hear him drive away. Lightly banging my head against the door, I try to figure out why my skin is tingling and why my heart is beating so strong that I feel like it’s going to pump right out of my skin.

“Leah, is that you?” Dad asks from somewhere in the house.

I push off the door, give myself a shake, and follow the sound of his voice into the kitchen. He’s standing over a saucepan, measuring cups of sugar.

“Taffy time?” I kick off my sneakers and take a seat at the counter.

“You betcha. I could use a hand.” He motions toward a pan on the counter of taffy that is being cooled.

Not one to argue with Bob Paige, I get up, wash my hands, and then take my seat again. I pull the pan toward me and feel the taffy that is cool to the touch.

He mixes the sugar and cornstarch in a pan while I pull the taffy from another. I’m cutting it into one-inch strips. With every cut, I think of how Adam gave my words right back to me. Maybe I’m the one who has been dissecting his failures all this time, assuming the worst and accusing him of being the bad guy. If so, I’m just as villainous as he is.

“Everything okay?” Dad asks, pouring corn syrup into the pan.