i think it's love | ethma

one

"Need a ride, Em?"

She debates ignoring him. It would certainly be much easier on her ego if she continues to stare up at the night sky with boredom and pretend she's crossing her arms over her dress as a show of stubbornness instead of her just freezing her ass off and trying to get warm. She wonders at how long it would take her to just walk home— sure, she's a little tipsy, but it couldn't be that bad, could it?

But really, it's worth it— if only for the single benefit that she won't have to actually speak to the guy currently leaning out the window of his idling piece-of-shit truck.

Just when she's gathering the resolve to walk away, a sharp gust of wind blows through the street, causing her hair to whip harshly around her face and assaulting her bare arms into goosebumps. She can't help the shiver right then that escapes her.

"Hey," she hears him say, and there seems to be a smidgen of concern there instead of the mockery that was there before. "Get in. You're hardly wearing anything and it's fucking cold. I'll give you a ride."

Her eyes finally betray her and flicker to his face unconsciously. It's a mistake.

Ethan Dolan. Senior at Stot Academy where she's Junior, all lean muscles and cocky grins and raised eyebrows and soft brunette hair and big veiny hands.

She hates him.

And she's pretty sure he hates her.

(They have a bit of a history.)

He's still leaning a bit out the window, one hand on the wheel and one hand holding a half-eaten apple that he's apparently been munching on. When their eyes meet, he says in a tone of almost awe, "Holy shit, you're drunk."

She finally speaks at that, voice wobbly. "I'm not drunk."

He blinks. "What?"

"I'm not drunk," she insists, except this time she consciously makes sure not to slur the words.

He half-laughs, leaning back into his seat. She hates his stupid laugh; it always has the capacity to get on her nerves. "Whatever you say, Em. Do you need a ride or not?"

She debates it again. She turns her face back to the house, where the dull thudding of shitty music can still be heard, light streaming from every window, and laughter from a few guys sitting on the porch in the front, passing a bottle around. She really doesn't want to go back in there, either.

Of course, the alternative is Ethan Dolan, which she doesn't exactly want, either.

One of the guys sitting on the porch notices her looking. "Hey babe! Nice rack!" This comment is followed by guffawing from the others. "Come have a beer!"

Well then. Decision instantly made, she walks briskly over to the passenger side of Ethan's truck and hops in without ceremony. No matter how much she might dislike Ethan, she feels a lot safer with him than standing alone in the front of a house party. No, she will never admit that out loud. But.

Meanwhile he's staring hard out the window at the guys who are still yelling at her.

"Where you going, brunette?" they hoot.

"Drive," Emma advises Ethan dully as she maneuvers her uncooperative body into his truck, ignoring the obscene gestures one of the guys is now demonstrating.

Ethan squints out the window. "You know these dicks?" His tone communicates great disgust.

"No," Emma says shortly. She sits down heavily on the seat, and a loud farting sound makes her jump in surprise and irritation before she realizes what it is and is instantly disgusted. "Really, Ethan, a whoopee cushion? Could you sink any lower?" She pulls the thing out from the seat and waves it in front of his face.

Grinning, he snatches it from her hand and tosses it in the back seat. "It's not mine. Jack put it there earlier."

"And you didn't think to remove it before I sat inside."

"Nope. Totally slipped my mind, actually." His overly-innocent tone of voice isn't fooling Emma.

She shakes her head, not wanting to get into it. "Just drive me home," she spits at him, making sure every word is filled to the brim with loathing. "I've got a bitch of a headache." And she's tired. As he puts the truck into drive, she leans her head back onto the rest.

There's a minute or two of blissful silence before he speaks again. "So what happened to your ride, anyway?"

She doesn't respond, choosing instead to curl up against the seat and get more comfortable.

"So Mark just got you drunk and then left the party," he murmurs when his question is met with silence. "Typical."

Her eyes fly open for a brief moment to glare at him. "Fuck you, Ethan," she hisses, because he doesn't know jack shit about her life and yet he's almost perfectly deduced the situation. "There was an emergency. He had to run."

He sounds unconvinced. "Without you."

"You know what I like about you most, Ethan?" she says in return.

She can almost feel him turn his head curiously in her direction, although her eyes are closed.

"The fact that you don't usually talk to me much." When he laughs, a little huff of amusement, she elaborates. "I can almost forget for a second how much of an ass you are."

"You're a mean drunk, aren't you?" he says, sounding amused. "Silence it is." And there is silence, for at least one minute before she hears him turn the radio on. Pop music immediately begins to blare, pounding in time with the pain in her temples.

She groans, covering her ears. "I hate you."

He turns the volume up in answer.

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