True to his word, Halston is waiting at the end of my shift, his truck parked in the same spot it occupied for an hour or so earlier after I convinced him to come in for breakfast.
He sat in a booth in the corner, downed a few cups of coffee and a stack of pancakes, before waltzing out the door without so much as goodbye. I've come to find he's a man of few words, and I certainly can't blame him.
As I get close to the truck I can see his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, matching the beat of the bass that's causing the truck to rumble. I don't understand his willingness to help me, a complete stranger, but I'm not really in any position to question it.
He's startled when I yank open the door and I shoot him a soft grimace, silently apologizing for the intrusion.
"You left this," I mutter, sliding the twenty dollar bill across the center console to him before busying my hands with buckling my seatbelt.
"I know," he replies. "I left it on purpose. It's called a tip." His voice shows a hint of irritation.
I scoff. "That defeats the purpose of me buying you breakfast. This," I push my finger into the crumpled bill and slide it closer to him, "is more than the food, plus an average tip, combined."
"Just take it," he sighs, turning the wheel to the left as he accelerates out of the lot. He doesn't bother to look at me. I've noticed he never really does, not since our first meeting yesterday. "Use it to help get your car fixed."
"I don't need a handout," I spit, the words vomiting from my mouth before I realize what I'm saying, and I bite down on my lip wishing I could replace them with anything else. Or, at least lighten my tone.
"I was just trying to be nice, but fuck," he replies. His hand clenches the wheel, his face red, surely just about as red as mine is at the moment.
Silence settles in, the only sound that of the tires rolling over the pavement and Halston's steady breathing. Suddenly I feel remorseful for my clipped tone, a feeling that has become almost as foreign as irritation. I should be glad he didn't throw me out of the truck and make me walk the rest of the way. That's what I would've done had I been in his position.
"Listen, I'm sorry Halston," I say finally, after spending a few short moments working up the nerve to speak. "I'm not...I don't...I don't do well with accepting help."
In my experience, nothing comes without a catch. There are always strings attached. If someone is going out of their way to help, that usually means they want something in return, usually something I'm not willing to give.
He arches a brow and turns to look at me, his eyes connecting with mine, causing a slow burn to appear under my cheeks.
"You asked me for a ride yesterday."
"And that was a shot to my pride," I say.
"You've accepted my offers for rides. Why's this any different?"
"It just is," I reply on a sigh, rubbing my hands over the denim covering my thighs. "Besides, the food was a way to even the score. But with this, the ball's back in your court."
The truck coasts to a stop at a red light and he shifts his entire body to look at me, his eyes watching my hands move back and forth over my legs.
"It's okay to accept help once in a while." I catch his gaze under hooded lids, and the look in his eyes tells me he knows this from experience. I want to pry, ask him how he knows that, what experience he has with accepting help, but I don't. I would hate if someone pried into my life like that. Just ask the people that have tried.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask instead, balling my hands in my lap. I know I had thought it a bad idea earlier, to questions his motives, but I couldn't help myself.
The light turns green and the truck jerks forward as we begin to move once again. He shrugs but doesn't say a word, and I take that to mean the conversation is over. I don't press him, just turn my body towards the window and watch the campus of Greensville University come into view.
He parks outside the science building where I'm assuming his first class must be. My music theory class is a short walk away, but I don't mind. I need the time alone, time to regroup, to gather up the energy for today's performance of 'happy-go-lucky Ryah Ryan.'
"Thanks again," I mutter, reaching over the seat to collect my bags.
"Do you need a ride home after class?" He asks, surprising the hell out of me. I figured after the way I acted he'd want nothing more to do with me. But he has been full of surprises up until now, so a few more shouldn't be unexpected.
"Oh, I actually have practice after class and then I have a shift at the student center so it'll be late before I head off campus. I'll catch the bus."
"You have two jobs?" He asks incredulously.
"Three actually," I say with a dry chuckle. "But who's counting."
"And you also cheer or whatever?" He lifts both eyebrows this time, a lock of hair falling over them and he huffs it away with a loud breath. I nod, not knowing what else to say. "Hm."
This time I'm the one that arches a brow. "What?"
"It's just, surprising is all. The cheerleading thing. You look the part, I guess. Kinda. But you don't act it." He rubs at the back of his neck which, in the short amount of time we've spent together, I know means he's nervous.
"How would you know? You don't really know me. I'm just as much of a stranger as that guy over there." I point at a man walking his dog down the sidewalk. He shrugs, that soft smile finding a home on his lips.
"I know more about you than you think," he states. "I know your name is Ryah Ryan, which is kind of hard to say without laughing. I know you live in room 4 A. I know you drive an old Suburban that's seen better days and that you work at a diner and here at school and somewhere else. I know you have good taste in music because sometimes I can hear it through your door when I walk by, I just didn't know until yesterday who was behind the door. And I know that, for reasons unknown, you're a cheerleader."
My heart suddenly picks up and it's pace, and now it's not only my cheeks that are warm, but my entire body.
"It's a long story," I say. "One for another day."
His smile widens, baring a set of perfectly straight teeth, and I feel that smile all the way through to my core.
"Promise?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
My brow furrows, my teeth catching my bottom lip in a death grip, my fists balling in my lap.
He cares. He wants to know. About me. But why?
And why am I even considering telling him?
"Promise."
