“She’s a bad driver?” It was comforting to think that my sister might be bad at something.
“The worst,” Adam confirmed. “She’s never actually hit another car, but there’s not a trash can, streetlight, or mailbox safe within a forty-mile radius. There’s a reason she hired a driver.”
I decided to let Adam pretend Bodie was just a driver and climbed into the car.
“First rule of defensive driving,” Adam told me as he directed me out of the parking lot, “watch out for the other guy. Drivers here are more aggressive than you’re used to. There’s more traffic, and that means more frustrated drivers doing stupid things to shave three minutes off their commute.”
“Watch out for the other guy,” I repeated. “Sounds like a motto for life.”
Adam’s blue eyes flicked briefly over to mine as he directed me to turn onto a major street. Once he was satisfied that I could, in fact, turn without causing my car—or any car in the near vicinity—to explode, he allowed himself to actually converse. “You don’t trust people?”
“Not to hit my car, or not to screw up my life?”
“Either.”
That seemed like more of an answer than a question, so I didn’t reply.
“How are you liking Hardwicke?” Adam tried another topic of conversation. “Setting aside any and all incidents with the headmaster.”
“It’s school,” I said. More homework, more affluent student body—but at the end of the day, high school was high school, and my goal was to make it through relatively unscathed. “It’s okay,” I amended, taking pity on Adam, who deserved something for taking time out of his afternoon. “My classes aren’t horrible.”
“Not horrible,” Adam said dryly. “That’s high praise.”
From me, it kind of was.
After several seconds of silence, Adam switched topics. “Theo Marquette’s funeral is tomorrow,” he said. He paused. “Your sister will want to be there.”
I wasn’t sure how he expected me to respond to that.
“Theo was a friend,” Adam continued. He measured his words, his calm, knowing eyes slanting toward mine. “Funerals are hard for Ivy.” There was something in the way Adam said my sister’s name—like things that hurt her hurt him.
I kept my eyes locked on the road. I didn’t have to ask why funerals were hard for Ivy. Ivy had been twenty-one when we lost our parents. Old enough to remember every last detail of the aftermath.
“Are you going to the funeral, too?” I asked Adam. He cared about my sister enough that he was here teaching me how to drive. He hurt when she hurt. I had no idea if there was anything more than friendship between them, but it seemed like a reasonable question.
Adam’s jaw clenched slightly. “It’s better that I sit this one out.”
He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t ask him to. For twenty minutes, the two of us rode in silence, except for the occasional admonition from Adam for me to watch out for the other guy and keep my eyes on the road. As we pulled up to Ivy’s house, I started to feel the weight of the silence.
“So what do you do when you’re not teaching random teenagers to navigate the big, bad streets of DC?” I asked.
I put the car in Park. Adam unbuckled his seat belt, squaring his shoulders slightly as he replied. “I work for the Department of Defense. Before I was assigned to the Pentagon, I flew for the Air Force.”
“Why the Pentagon?” I asked.
“That’s where I was assigned.” Adam stiffened, the muscles in his neck the only noticeable tell. His tone reminded me of the fight I’d overheard him having with Ivy.
Adam—whose father made things happen in DC—had gone from an assignment he enjoyed to working at the Pentagon.
“Your father wanted you in DC?” It was a stab in the dark.
“My father is very family oriented.” Adam’s voice was completely flat. He looked like a soldier standing at attention, eyes forward, never flinching. “He’s also very good at getting what he wants.”
“So is Ivy.” Those words slipped out before I’d thought them through. “Not family oriented, obviously,” I clarified. “Good at getting what she wants.”
Adam was quiet for several seconds. Finally he said, “Your sister is nothing like my father, Tess.”
I hadn’t meant to bring up Ivy.
“She would do anything for you,” Adam told me, angling his head to catch my gaze. Even blue eyes stared into mine. “You know that, right?”
“Sure.” That was what he wanted to hear.
“She won’t ask you to go to the funeral with her.” The set of Adam’s features was neutral, carefully controlled. “But I’m not going, and Bodie doesn’t do funerals. He’ll drive her there, but that’s it.” He let that sink in. “It would mean a lot if she didn’t have to go alone.”
A lot to Adam, or a lot to Ivy?