This is so bizarre. He’s not as furiously angry as he was behind the school, but I’m not sure what to do with this line of questioning. I pull my hands away from the vents and fold my arms across my stomach. “You don’t have the best reputation. That can’t be a surprise.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me about my reputation.”
I hesitate. I don’t know what to say. I know what Brandon told me, and I know about the rumors, but I don’t know what’s true. Not really. “You have a criminal record.”
“So what?” He looks at me. “That’s got nothing to do with you.”
I swallow. “Brandon said you got high and stole a car, then wrecked it.” I pause. “You’ve gotten into fights at school.” Another pause, and I meet his eyes. “You’re pretty confrontational.”
“I’m confrontational?”
He doesn’t bat an eye at accusations of car theft or physical fighting, but calling him confrontational gets a reaction. “Maybe you don’t remember getting in my face and telling me to delete some stupid picture.”
His eyebrows go up. “Maybe you don’t remember accusing me of pouring liquor into the punch bowl.”
My cheeks flare with heat, and I have to look away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s not like you’re the first.” His voice hasn’t changed tone, but he flicks a lever on the dash pretty hard. “You know what sucks? If you pick on someone weak at school, you end up suspended.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“No. But people can say whatever they want to a guy with a reputation, and no one cares. People actually root for it.”
He’s right. Like in the gym, guilt pricks at my senses. “You don’t do much to help yourself. Did you ever consider asking me to delete the picture? Or not calling Brandon a douchebag?”
Declan glares at me. “You think he gave a second thought to what he said about me?”
No. Probably not. I don’t know what to say.
We sit there in silence, listening to the rain rattle the roof.
Declan finally looks away. “Is that what people think?” he finally asks. “That I got high and stole a car?”
“You didn’t?”
He shakes his head. He’s not looking at me now. “I was drunk, not high.”
He says it like it should make a significant difference. “That’s it?”
“No.” He pauses. “I didn’t really steal the car, but my dickhead stepfather pressed charges anyway.”
“It was his car?”
“No. It was my dad’s truck.”
“Why did you—”
“Does it matter?” Declan glances out the back window, agitated now. “How long are you going to wait for this guy?”
I’m thrown by his sudden shift. “Ah . . . I don’t know.”
“Give me your keys.”
“What?”
“Give me your keys. I’m going to change your tire while we’re waiting.”
I fish in my purse and come up with a handful of keys. “You’re going to—”
“Stay in the car.” He grabs the keys and practically yanks them out of my fingers. Then he slams the door in my face.
I watch him in the path of his headlights, mystified. He opens my trunk, and, moments later, emerges with the spare tire. He lays it beside the car, then pulls something else from the darkened space. I’ve never changed a tire, so I have no idea what he’s doing. His movements are quick and efficient, though.
I shouldn’t be sitting here, just watching, but I can’t help myself. There’s something compelling about him. Dozens of cars have passed, but he was the only one to stop—and he’s helping me despite the fact that I’ve been less than kind to him all night.
He gets down on the pavement—on the wet pavement, in the rain—and slides something under the car. A hand brushes wet hair off his face.
I can’t sit here and watch him do this.
He doesn’t look at me when I approach. “I told you to wait in the car.”
“So you’re one of those guys? Thinks the ‘little woman’ should wait in the car?”
“When the little woman doesn’t know her tires are bald and her battery could barely power a stopwatch?” He attaches a steel bar to . . . something . . . and starts twisting it. “Yeah. I am.”
My pride flinches. “So what are you saying?” I ask, deadpan. “You don’t want my help?”
His smile is rueful. “You’re kind of funny when you’re not so busy being judgmental.”
“You’re lucky I’m not kicking you while you’re down there.”
He loses the smile but keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing. “Try it, sister.”
I’m tempted. This bickering is somehow exhilarating. It’s the first time in months that I’ve had an interaction with someone that didn’t seem to be happening through a fog.
“Why did you want me to delete the picture?” I ask instead.
Whatever he’s twisting hits the car with a metallic thunk, and he stops. He looks up at me. “Is your parking brake on?”
“Um . . .”
“Go. Check.”
I go. I check. It’s not. I pull the lever, then get back out in the rain. He’s using the bar to loosen the bolts that hold the wheel onto the car.
“Thanks,” he says. His voice is tight with strain.
I wait for more, but that’s it. He doesn’t answer my question.
“Are you deliberately not answering me?”
He nods.
“Don’t you need to jack the car up before you can take the wheel off?”
“They need to be loose first. Otherwise pulling on them could push it right off the jack.”
“And that would be bad.”
“Yes. That would be bad.” The muscles in his forearms stand out from the effort. He pushes wet hair off his face again. He attaches the bar to the metal object under the car and continues twisting.
“Is that a jack?” I ask, feeling foolish.
He glances up at me, and his expression makes me wish I’d waited in the car.
I wait until he goes back to the jack and ask, “What are we going to do about the battery?”
“I’ll see if I can jump it again. Then I’ll follow you home. And then you’re going to get a new one tomorrow.” He glances up at me. “Right?”
I nod quickly. “Right.”