We drive through the deserted streets like a film in reverse, heading off the island back the way I came. The Volvo is an automatic, but Joey keeps his hand on the gear shaft and every time he says something to me, he taps his fingers to my knee. I shift in the seat to try and get away, but these damn European cars are too small to afford much in the way of privacy. “There’s the school,” Joey points out with that faint touch on my leg. The kids have gone back inside now; the track is empty. “Remember the time we won homecoming by like forty points?”
“No,” I mutter at my reflection in the passenger side window. “I don’t recall much about high school anymore.”
Joey laughs and taps my knee. Stop touching me, I want to shout, but then I would sound like a bratty toddler so I bite my lower li
