A light mist descends as we stop at my white Prius. “Raincheck on you driving.” He shakes his head and using his crutches, hops away.
“Pearl is a great car. Get in.” I remain beside my car, watching him.
He turns, pointing a crutch at my car. “Getting in and out of your car with my knee in its current condition—hell, even not in its current condition—would require a lot of prayers.”
“Are you always this dramatic?” I roll my eyes, dodging a large puddle as I follow him.
“Sometimes, I’m even worse.”
I laugh, in spite of myself. “Fine. We’ll take your car. But I should probably drive. How fast is your reaction time right now with a knee brace and pain killers?”
“It’s an automatic, and I stopped taking my pain killers after the first week.”
I feel my brows shoot up. “Trying to prove something?”
“Are you always a cynic?”
I pause, digesting his question. “Maybe?”
He slows, as though my answer comes as a surprise. “Jaded?”
“Hesitant.”
“Self-preservation?”
I nod. “A little of that and a little for sanity. It’s easier not to be disappointed when you don’t hold expectations for others or situations.”
“Sure, but if you expect everything to suck, you’re already setting an expectation.”
“I never said I expected everything to suck.”
“Pretty sure cynical translates to suckfest.” He pauses at a large, smoky-gray SUV.
“This coming from the guy who’s positive he’s been cursed?”
The locks release and I pull open the passenger door, hoping his bad luck doesn’t translate to his driving. “What would you chalk my knee up to?”
“I don’t know? Uncoordinated? Clumsy?” I grin to show I’m joking. “I have no idea, but come on, you realize how crazy you sound, right?”
“No. Please, tell me again,” he says, starting the SUV.
“I mean, think of all the things that can’t be proven or quantified. Some still don’t believe the earth is round or that dinosaurs existed.”
“This sounds like one of my favorite brain channels over these past few weeks when I can’t sleep.”
“Brain channels?”
“Thoughts,” he tells me.
“I’m serious.”
He does another casual shrug, the kind that exudes confidence and ease as a smile creeps across his features. “Okay, you’ve caught me. I usually listen to comedians when I can’t sleep.”
“Comedians?”
He nods, checking his mirrors as he backs out. “I listen to comedians every night before I go to bed.”
“Why?”
“It puts me in a good mood. I’d rather fall asleep laughing.”
“What’s the alternative?”
His eyes cut to me. “Alternative?”
“You said rather. You’d rather fall asleep laughing than what?”
His shoulders bob again. “Worry about shit that’s out of my control. Everyone is always so stressed out these days. Everyone’s worried about being the best, the most successful, the top-whatever. I don’t want to work toward being the best or greatest. I just want to be happy.”
I stare at his chiseled features, from his straight nose and dark hair to his olive skin and toned biceps. He’s a gorgeous, all-star athlete who likely has a fan club on social media and an endless line of girls at his disposal, friends, money—comforts big and small that make life easier. And, despite all of that, there’s an edge of unhappiness. He didn’t have to tell me for me to know—it’s written all over his face.
“What do you want out of life?” he asks.
“I don’t know what I want out of this year,” I tell him honestly. “I mean, moving back to Texas is on the list, but that’s pretty much all I’ve got.”
“Texas?”
I nod. “Eventually.”
“Why’d you move up here if you don’t like it?”
His question has me turning my attention to the window, thoughts dancing faster than the passing trees that are thick and lushly green, filled with patches of moss that make up the Pacific Northwest. They paint an entirely new definition for anyone who claims to have seen the forest before. “School.”
“To go to Brighton?”
“Why’d you choose Brighton?” I ask, knowing after Rose filled me in on his potential and success as an athlete that he likely had numerous opportunities.
“Your dad,” he says. “He came and scouted me. I was kind of an asshole in high school,” he glances at me, his eyes a shade of gray that is nearly silver. “Life was easy for me, and I liked to dick around. I didn’t really have plans for what was next, because I just assumed I’d get all the offers and life would go on being easy. But then I got into a fight, and all the schools who’d shown interest in me were suddenly gone, and then your dad came and gave me a shot.”
“A fight?”
He nods as he reaches for the dial of the heater and turns it up. “My brother, Theo, messed with the wrong dudes. Stole some shit for his car, and they came after him.”
“He stole from someone?”
Arlo’s eyes flash with a smile. “Don’t start thinking it’s cause I’m from Jersey. We’re not all hardened criminals, that’s just Theo. He’s a hardass who likes to act first and think second.” He shrugs. “The rest of us work for a living.”
I try to hide my surprise at this, but his lips follow suit with his eyes, grinning.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve got a job, just like you. Or I did before I broke my fucking knee.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at a bike shop and sometimes get some shifts at a place that does car detailing.”
“A bike shop sounds so Pacific Northwest.”
He laughs, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a warmth in his stare, a comfort that makes being here with him seem like less of a bad idea as the miles pass. “Doesn’t it?”
“So, where did you run into this lady?” I ask, turning my attention back out the window as we head downtown.
“Not too far from here. We’d been doing a bar crawl, and a buddy picked us up near where it happened.”
“A bar crawl? Is there anything about you that isn’t a stereotype?”
Arlo belts out a laugh, running a hand through his hair, making it fall into a messy disarray of perfection. “Come on now. You moved here from Texas, and you’re wearing cowboy boots and calling me a stereotype?”
“But we do wear cowboy boots … sometimes.”
His laughter grows, flashing his pearly whites that reveal his bottom teeth are slightly crowded, but he doesn’t try to hide the fact or cover his smile. He pulls into a paved parking lot, taking the corner too fast and sharp. I close my eyes and grab the door for support expecting the SUV to lurch.
“You okay over there?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure you have your luck back. No way we shouldn’t have hit something.”
“I’ve been driving since I was eight. Trust me, that was nothing.”