Pusher

thirty-eight.

Another gust of wind passed through me, whipping through my hair and creeping up the hem of my shirt and cuffs of my pants. It was a good thing I had finished crying relatively quickly. At this point, I was half sure the teardrops would have turned to ice halfway through sliding down my cheeks.

It was getting late, the sun dipping into the rows of identical suburban rooftops, and any heat I had managed to soak up was being eaten away by the cool night. And yet, here I was, sitting on a park bench with my knees tucked up to my chest and my hands buried in my sleeves for warmth.

It was the same park I had first met Ellie at so many years ago. It was smack in the center in the nearest route between our houses. Just a couple of blocks and I could be at her door. She'd let me stay there, no questions asked.

No — that's not quite true. There would be an assault of questions. I'd have to recount the whole story of my mother's tired eyes and my cruel words. It would turn into an argument about dealing again. Maybe Ellie couldn't understand why I needed to sell weed, and maybe my mom would never either, but that didn't change the fact that it was my best option.

So when my phone beeped with a text from Maverick, asking if I wanted to go to a party with him, I hardly hesitated to respond. A distraction was exactly what I needed right now, and it wouldn't hurt to get out of this cold either.

His truck rolled to the curb beside the park within ten minutes. I climbed into the passenger's seat and pulled the seatbelt across my chest. I rubbed my hands together to work out some of the cold, thankful Maverick already had the heat cranked up, and looked at him expectantly when he didn't immediately throw the vehicle into drive.

"Jesus, aren't you freezing?" he asked. Those familiar dark eyes crinkled with apprehension and inky hair spilled onto his forehead. "How long have you been out here? You don't even have a jacket."

Before I could defend myself, he was already digging into the backseat. After pushing around the pile of odds and ends he accumulated back there, he tugged out a sweater and tossed it at me. Too cold to be bashful, I slipped it on without hesitation. It smelled like him — or at least whatever aftershave he used. It took me every ounce of self control I had not to bury my face in the fabric.

His hand, the knuckles battered and cut, hovered over the gearshift, contemplating a moment before he turned to me. "You know, we don't have to go to this party. We could just drive around for a while, go someplace else."

He could tell something happened, I could feel it. The staring, the hesitancy. I glanced in the side mirror, checking to see how puffy my eyes were. My face was shaded a distinct red, but that could just be from the cold, right?

"I want to go," I insisted. It was a lie, and we both knew, but he didn't say anything else, just huffed out a breath and pulled the vehicle back onto the road. To my surprise, we arrived within minutes. We hadn't even escaped the city limits. I could have melted into the seat for how deflated I felt. Seeing a bunch of people from my high school was the last thing I wanted to do right now. Maverick could tell.

"We really don't have to go if you're not feeling up to it," he began.

"I'm fine, really," I said, "Let's just go."

"Whatever you say."

And so I sat nibbling on trail mix for over a half an hour. Maverick stuck by my side for whatever reason, but we scarcely talked. He was too awkward to ask the burning question: what the hell was going on with me? And I was too miserable to even try to entertain the both of us. It was a full time job just trying to keep the tears from welling back up in my eyes. So much for a distraction.