Most of our drive is excruciating. We sit in silence broken only by the radio playing low between us and the occasional slurp on the straws in our take-out cups. Scott eats as he drives, a burger in one hand and the wheel in the other, and with those sunglasses on, I can’t see his eyes. He stares straight ahead as if he’s concentrating on the road, but I swear every now and then I feel him looking my way. I can’t catch him at it, and those shades make it impossible to meet his gaze, but I feel it nonetheless. I concentrate on my fries and the trees we drive by and try to ignore the fact that, mile by mile, my chances with him are slipping by.
“So,” he starts at one point.
I glance up with something akin to relief—at least he’s still talking to me.
But all he has to say is, “Traffic’s
