Relying On Ben and Jerry (Waltham #1)

Chapter Thirty-Eight: I Call Shotgun

Neither of us wanted to get on the subway and head for home, but we eventually did. We sat so close on the subway that we were always touching, talking and laughing about the stupidest things, and people were looking at us like we had lost our minds but we didn’t care. Quinton and I made up a game where we would look at the people sharing the car with us and we would make up stories about their lives, like where they are coming from. I kind of lost it when Quinton pointed to a guy that had to be from Charlestown and deemed him as the new CEO of Apple, and that he had just come from meeting the Japanese swimming team.

Needless to say, I understood why people were staring at us, but I felt like I was too busy flying through the clouds to care.

When the subway stopped at our station we hopped off, our fingers gripping our hands together as he led me through the station and to the car, smiling as we went, talking about things that didn’t make much sense. It was just easy that way—like when you first meet someone and they know all of the topics you are talking about the same way that you do, and it’s like the heavens have opened up and the angels are singing. It’s not quite as melodramatic in real life but it was just as easy. I knew what to say before I could even think about saying it.

It had always been that way with Quinton but for some reason it just felt different now. It made me feel a little more free to fly.  

It took about twenty minutes to get from the subway station to our houses, and even when he pulled up in front of my house and turned the car off, neither of us moved or spoke. I think we both didn’t want the night to end; I could tell by the way he flexed his fingers tightly around my own as he looked up at our houses. He blew out a long sigh.

“I hope your parents aren’t mad,” he said, wincing. “It’s kind of late.”

I glanced at the clock and did a double take, because it definitely didn’t feel like it was almost one o’clock in the morning. I looked to my house, the windows still dark, but that wasn’t saying much. I grimaced. “I don’t exactly have a curfew, so I guess they shouldn’t get too mad about it, right? And they haven’t called, so they must not be worrying that I’m dead yet.”

“I hope they’re not mad,” he murmured, smiling shyly over at me. “I wouldn’t want them to tell me I’m not allowed to take you out again.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, I blushed. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that,” I mumbled nervously, glancing down at my knees. Gosh do I have some elephant knees. I looked back up at him, grimacing. But he was still smiling, I guess pleased with my answer.

“I’ll walk you up,” he immediately offered, letting go of my hand for one of the first times tonight to reach over and throw his door open, smiling. I blinked and watched him climb out before I shocked myself into reality, scrambling out so quickly that I stumbled onto the road, the sound of my rain boots against the empty silence of the neighborhood sounding as loud as gunshots. I shut the door and skipped around the hood of the car, shivering slightly with the night’s chill, to where Quinton was waiting, his arms crossed and a smile on his face. The moment I reached him, he offered me his hand.

I took it.

We didn’t talk much on the walk up to my door. Frankly, we didn’t have to. We had this comforting silence going for us, the kind where you didn’t feel obligated to bring up the weather or something just to fill the void. I could sit for days in a silence with Quinton without feeling the need to say a word. We talked enough through our smiles.