You Belong With Me

Talk Later

Johan

He looked to his right, to the sleeping form in his passenger seat. Legs together, shoulders and knees angled toward him, her head heavy against the headrest. If he would reach his arm over, he could tuck her against his side, a perfect, seamless fit. But she looked so peaceful, and he knew woe and plague would befall whosoever would dare disturb her.

"Go ahead and pretend to sleep for as long as you like," he said, not bothering to whisper. "We have a long drive to go. But we're having The Talk when we get home."

"I'm not pretending," she mumbled, eyes remaining shut. "All the screaming children tired me out."

His hand flitted to her cheek, brushing a stray lock of hair aside. "The adults too."

"Shiela will never let me hear the end of this."

He laughed. Shiela had screamed bloody murder when they rejoined the gathering with hands entwined. Their friend had to be restrained from showering them with confetti and candy from the cracked palayok.

"Stop looking at me." Mira tilted her head towards the window, obscuring his view of her face. He pouted at the loss. "Eyes on the road. Today isn't a good day to die."

"Yes, ma'am. Sleep."

She gave a short hum, the same sound he'd heard a million times before. On those nights when she and Miguel were both passed out in his car because the Banzon siblings were lightweights and he was the designated driver. The sound she answered him with when he'd showed up in Dubai and explained how he was, by some coincidence, there on vacation. Every time they were on the phone, those midnights when she'd video-call and he'd entertain her with his inane humor.

Mira wriggled in her seat, holding herself in a loose ball. "You bet your ass we're talking later."