Jet Black Hearts / l.h.

𝟔

Thursday, August 27, 2018
6:10 p.m.
Luke's Truck

I'm trying not to freak out as I'm riding shotgun in Luke's rusty red pickup because the breeze coming through the rolled down windows, the extravagant colors in the sky, and most of all Luke's humming to the radio is making me feel something. It's an unfamiliar sensation blooming in my chest, clawing at my stomach, and stirring my mind. My hands are clenching so hard in my lap and my teeth are gnawing the shit out of my bottom lip and I don't know what the fuck is happening to me.

Luke glances at me from out of the corner of his eye. "Is something wrong?" he asks quietly, unsure.

I stare straight out the windshield. "No."

His eyes linger on my face, but I'm not showing any emotion. He lets it go.

But something is wrong. Something is wrong with me.

I feel my nail puncture the skin of my palm and realize how tense I am. I slide my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and, to distract my thoughts and to busy my hands, I text my mom that I caught a ride. She replies with a yellow thumbs-up emoji.

I put my phone away and play with the hem of my sweatshirt to occupy my hands more.

A new song starts on the radio. It's some cliche, over-played pop song that was written to get stuck in your head. Luke reaches out and turns the volume down. A few seconds pass before he clears his throat and steals another glance at me. He seems to struggle with saying something because his mouth opens and closes a few times.

Finally, he exhales deeply and settles with, "I turn up here, right?"

I nod. The turn signal is turned on and he slows the truck as he turns the corner.

With the popular, cheesy song coming through the radio and and the humid late evening air hitting my face, I frown. My mind may be tangled up in knots and my insides might be doing acrobatics, but I know one thing for sure: I don't like it when Luke isn't happy. The reason why is beyond me and, quite frankly, bothers me.

I look at him. His eyes are on the road and his hands are stiff on the wheel.

He pulls up to the house I direct him to. He puts the car in park and glances out the window at my medium-sized, normal, white house.

"I like the mailbox," he says with his lips tugging upwards and his skeletal hand on the gear-shift.

I don't reply and turn to look at said mailbox. Honestly, it makes me cringe. My brother, who is currently across the country attending college, painted it when he was twelve. The only reason why I despise it is because it's just another thing that makes my genius, artistic brother look better. By age ten he was playing football with the high school team, at fourteen he graduated high school, and at nineteen he was selling his own original art pieces. He set a ridiculously high standard for me to reach, and I fall short in every category.

So, yeah, I don't reply to Luke's statement that was supposed to lighten the mood. Fuck the mailbox.

I open the door and step out of the truck. I turn to close the door, but I pause when I see Luke biting his lip, looking like he wants to disappear, it reminds me of myself.

My mind screams at me to just turn and go inside. Why should I care about this ridiculously tall boy's feelings? It's dumb. Shut the door.

But I stay still.

Go inside.

Luke studies me.

He thinks you're being weird, which you are because you shouldn't care and you do for some fucked-up reason and just shut the door and go inside and forget that any of this happened because this is literally so dumb.

"Thanks," my voice pushes past my lips.

Luke's faltered smile returns at full-blast. Even a little indent on his cheek forms.

"Any time."