these troubled bones | s.m.

iv. chauffeur

iv. chauffeur

A MIRACLE OCCURS a few days later: Willa Knight is sitting in the passenger seat of my car.

I've been badgering her the past week or so to accept my offer for a ride. Usually I'd just let her be her stubborn self and walk, but her rejection really irks me for some reason. Who gave her the right to act like she's too good for me? A tiny part of me is thinking maybe since I'm used to girls chasing after me - Anna, Caroline, Areta - that I'm just surprised (and a little turned on, but I'm going to ignore that for right now). Whatever reason there is for this lapse of sanity, the end result is the same: I'm acting like the annoying fly in this girl's ear.

It's raining today, a rarity for Venus Beach, and clearly something Willa wasn't expecting when her family ditched Ohio for sunny California. She's got one of those too-big sweaters that she's always wearing, but it's knit so loose that it doesn't seem like it's giving her any warmth. When I leave my house at the usual time, I see her shivering on the porch of 28 Lilywhite.

"Morning, Knight," I call with a shit-eating grin. "Cold?"

She glares at me. In response, I tantalizingly jangle my car keys at her. "You know you want to," I say.

"Oh, fuck off," says Willa, which is only encouragement. I stick the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life - or, well, sputters because it's basically crap on wheels. Still beats walking in the rain, though.

"Last chance," I sing at her across the street. The downpour is really starting now, and I'm getting soaked to the bone while she remains under the minimal safety of her roof. I'm a little antsy about driving in the rain, since I'm not exactly great at it on dry land, but for Willa's purposes, I might as well be a DMV examiner's wet dream.

Finally, over the sound of the rain pummeling the street, I think I hear a defeated sigh. Then:

"Does your shitbox have seat warmers?"

Victory. I smirk, though I doubt Willa can see it through the rain. "You bet your freezing ass it does, Knight. Hop in."

Two minutes later, we're stuck at a red light on the main road. The weather means more people are driving to school today instead of walking, so the street is congested with more traffic than usual, meaning a longer drive and subsequently, longer awkward silences with Knight. I tap my hands on the steering wheel before reaching over to turn up the radio volume.

Willa scrunches her nose up at me and leans over to inspect the dashboard, finally deciding to press a button that changes the station.

I gape at her. "Excuse you. I don't know what they're like in Nowhere, Ohio, but in the rest of the world, it's rude to mess with the music in someone else's car."

"That song was shit and you know it," she tells me, unapologetic. Her lips are pursed in a way that seems like a challenge. It's very distracting, so I make sure to keep my eyes on the road, easing onto the gas pedal when the light turns green. For a second, I flashback to when Areta and I used to cruise around town. She was reckless in the car, always trying to catch my attention with her lips on my neck or her laughter in my ear. It's a miracle we didn't crash.

I shake my head to rid myself of these thoughts. I'm not sure why I thought of it in the first place; Willa's not my girlfriend. She's not Areta.

"Besides," Knight's continuing, not noticing that I'd spaced out. "Anyone who dislikes Vampire Weekend isn't worth my time." I realize she's referencing what she changed the station to, a catchy song by the band in question.

Beneath her words is a question: Are you worth my time? I'm not sure if I want to be or not, but the fact of the matter is that I own all of Vampire Weekend's albums, so just to spite her, I start singing along. Loudly. I hear her scoff in what I kind of hope is surprise. It's maybe the first time I've managed to impress her.