I keep walking, thinking that maybe I’ll find Georgia or Emory for a ride back to campus. I don’t know Ben or Carlton that well, but maybe well enough that I’d chance riding back with them. I’m still mulling this over when I hear the familiar rumble of the Shelby approaching from behind. It rolls up next to me, Sebastian leaning across the passenger seat toward the open window, one hand on the steering wheel.
“You looking for a ride?” he calls, eyes tired.
I look forward, not stopping. “I don’t know. Am I?” Inside, I cringe at the way it comes out, all bristled and aggressive. Too transparent. I’m letting this guy have way too much power over me.
I can see his face harden in my periphery. “You’re pissed.”
“Oh?” I ask. “What gave it away?”
He mutters a low, “Goddamn it,” under his breath. “Come on, don’t make me do this.”
I stop, biting out a sharp, “Do what?”
The car pauses next to me. “The thing where I chase you around and beg and scrape. I’m not actually all that good at it, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I level him with a look. “Trust me. I have.”
He taps the steering wheel. “So?”
I take a deep breath, open the door, and get in. That stack of cash he won is sitting on the center console like a spent bag of fries from McDonald's. Stiffly, I ask, “So? How much did you win?”
His eyes dart down to the stack of cash. “That? I don’t know. Just chuck it out the fucking window.”
My face screws up. “What?”
He waves dismissively. “I don’t want it, it’s dirty money. Throw it out.”
A bitter laugh bubbles in my chest, spilling into the enclosed car. “God, you’re such an entitled prick. Why did you even bother racing if you didn’t want the money? Maybe one of the other guys could have actually used it instead of treating it like used tissues.”
He tilts his head and narrows his eyes at me. “You know, an hour ago, you were kissing me senseless and wishing me luck. Now you’re pissed because I won? I told you I didn’t really have a choice.”
He thinks I’m pissed about the race. I don’t necessarily correct him. “I don’t know,” I tell him, and I’m not lying. “Watching you out there, I admit it. You have a gift. And your brother? From what Georgia and the others say, he’s a piece of work—”
He snorts. “That’s the polite way of saying it. He’s a fucking sociopath.”
“But this whole world—the money and the gambling and the illegal shit—I didn’t sign up for that. I don’t belong there. I’m going to Preston to get away from a shady life, not to make a new one. If I wanted to spend Friday nights with a bunch of delinquents, I could have stayed in the Briar Cliffs.”
He pulls the car to a lurching stop at a light, fingers tightening around the wheel. “I don’t know what you were expecting. The people here aren’t magically functional just because we have more money. We’re a fucking mess, Sugar. We’re barely eighteen and you wouldn’t believe the kinds of skeletons we already have in our closets. All this shit—the money, the nice cars, the fancy-ass school—it doesn’t erase our problems. It just makes the problems more expensive and easier to hide.” He looks at me, something hard and intense in his eyes. “People can’t touch you. I don’t know what that was like for you back in the Cliffs, but here? Fuck, Sugar, we’ve barely asked any questions. Why do you think that is?” Before I can answer, he tells me, “Because not facing our problems is something we’re really fucking good at. You really think you don’t belong here? You think being from the Cliffs make you better or worse than us? You’re wrong.”
He speeds away from the light and I don’t answer. It’s true that I’d had expectations of Preston and the sort of people who went there. But knowing people like Georgia, like Vandy, like Sebastian, has dispelled a lot of them. Maybe he’s right. Maybe everyone is fucked up in their own way and the only things that really divide us are the arbitrary notions that our problems are somehow more insurmountable.
“So is that what I am?” I ask, knowing that this heavy, churning feeling in my stomach has nothing to do with the race. “One of those problems you don’t want to face? At least, not in public.”
He glances at me, quick and confused. “What are you talking about? I faced up to what happened that night, it’s not like—” He goes suddenly silent, eyes flashing in realization. “Oh. You think I blew you off back there.”
“I don’t need to think,” I argue, feeling tired. “You did blow me off.”
He scoffs. “It’s not like that. I just had to deal with my brother.”
I give him a blank look, trying to figure out how the two are even connected. “Whatever.”
He pauses
, turning to give me a slower, calculating look. “Huh. I didn’t realize that about you.”
“Didn’t realize what?”
He shrugs, shifting gears to pass a car. “That you could be insecure.”