Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
“Where’s your sister?”
“Temple.” She released a sniffle into the darkness.
His silence struggled around her. If she had chosen the right play, he would be working out all the dire possibilities that would justify driving two hours with a bad alternator. And if she’d chosen the right boy, he would offer a solution that delivered him into her hands.
“Is she in danger?”
If yes, he’d call the cops. She shook her bowed head, curled further into herself. “She’s unstable. I don’t think she’d hurt herself, but her mind’s in a bad place.” A deep breath for effect. “I’m the only person she has.”
The scuff of his feet moved in the direction of the truck. “Temple is only thirty minutes from here. I can take you, if you want?”
Touchdown. The victory pulled at her lips. She relaxed her mouth and pivoted slowly, facing him, her features arranged in a portrait of disbelief. “Really?”
He opened the passenger door and held it in invitation. “If you’re okay leaving your car for the tow service. No one will bother it.”
No one would bother it, because Van would replace the fuse and follow far enough behind to not be seen. She snagged her wallet and phone from the car and shuffled toward him with deliberate caution in her steps.
What would a normal girl in her position say? “You’re not going to kidnap me and rape me, are you?” The twisted callousness in that suggestion tightened her throat. She wanted to retract the words, despising what the end of the night would bring for him.
“No, ma’am.” He shifted out of the way as she climbed in. “But there’s Mace in the glove box. Help yourself.” The corners of his full lips inched up. “Pretty as you are, you can’t be too trusting.”
A frigid clamp closed over her heart. Stupid, stupid boy.
Seated behind the wheel, he turned the truck around and drove toward town and I-35. When the bars appeared on her phone, he held up his. “I need to text my folks and let them know I’ll be late. Would you mind?”
As expected, his law-abiding refusal to text and drive put his phone in her hands. She accepted it and tapped on the call log. Last call was to his mom prior to the game. “Of course. Is it under—”
“Mom. Should be right—” He cut his eyes at her finger on the screen. “Yeah, that’s it. Just tell her I’m giving a friend a lift to Temple and I’ll be home by eleven-thirty.”
It was remarkable how unabashed he was about living with his parents. He didn’t know she knew the reasons. That they depended on him to work the struggling farm morning and night. That staying in his childhood bedroom saved them on-campus housing expenses despite some of the offset his scholarship awarded them.
He let her imagine whatever she wanted about a twenty-one-year-old checking in with Mom on a Friday night. His confidence wasn’t boy-like at all. It was admirably mature. And problematic. It would require breaking, likely through physical humiliation.
The pang from that thought hit her stomach, and she calmed it with the reminder that to succeed in an important aim, it was acceptable to do something bad. Or lots of somethings bad.
A discreet glance confirmed his eyes were on the road. As she typed out the text, she worked the cover off the back of the phone, let the battery drop between her legs—thank God it wasn’t an iPhone—and closed it up. The screen went black, the text unsent.
She placed it face down in the cup holder. “Sent.”
“Thanks. Do you need a number for a tow service?”
“I’ll call in the morning.”
His thumbs drummed on the steering wheel and stopped. “Name’s Josh. What’s yours?”
She always used her real name. No reason not to. “Liv.”
“Liv.” He pursed his lips. “L-I-V.”
“L-I-V.”
Shove it between DE and ERER, and she had a job title. Mr. E had a jolly cruel laugh about it when he promoted her to a deliverer by way of blackmail.
His face creased in a smile. “Do you believe in meaningful coincidence?”
Absolutely not. “Why?”
“I play football and my jersey number is fifty-four. Your name is L-I-V.”
What was his deal with the spelling? “And?”
He shrugged. “The Roman Numeral LIV is number fifty-four.”
Weird. Would she know these things if she’d had the freedom to earn her diploma or attend college? “I take it you believe coincidence is meaningful?”
“I think it’s plausible. There’s comfort in believing there are things in the universe that defy the odds, that something beyond common sense can pivot into place and fill an inner need.” He angled his head to glance at her, eyebrows bunching curiously, perhaps studying her face. He wouldn’t find anything meaningful there. He returned his attention to the road. “What do you think?”
The focus of conversation was expected for a boy pursuing a career in ministry. Still, she scrambled for an answer and settled on the truth. “Coincidence is nothing more than cause and effect. You jump. You fall.” He’d unwittingly jumped from his path and fallen onto someone else’s. What she had planned for him would challenge his notions of coincidence—and every other damned thing in his life.