Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

“That would be the one.” Xav doesn’t bother lying.

“Have you been drinking?” Here comes the obvious question.

“No, sir.”

I’m willing to bet that’s a lie and Xavier’s had at least one drink tonight, but the truth could cost him his license. Plus, if he did have a few drinks, it doesn’t reflect in his behavior or driving.

The man arches an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Where you off to?” The questions pile up.

“Just taking her home.”

“Are you now?” The sheriff grins, his words heavy with innuendo. Neither me, nor Xavier, waste our breath denying it. He’s already made up his mind. The questions drag on for eternity, until finally, Sheriff Daniel surrenders to the facts.

Everything checks out.

He’s got no reason to hold us.

“All right, well, you’ve got a burned-out taillight in the back, son. You need to get that fixed right away.”

I can’t believe it.

That’s what this is about.

I had a panic attack for a broken headlight.

“I’m giving you three days to take care of that. Not one more. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Xavier assures him.

The sheriff proceeds to give Xavier a notice to fix the violation and requests his license and registration. Xavier doesn’t put up a fight, pulling out his wallet and handing it over. Sheriff Daniel pauses when checking Xavier’s license.

“That really you?” He squints.

“Unfortunately. Old picture, you know how it is,” Xavier says.

Sheriff Daniel inches the license closer to his wrinkly face. “How old were you on this?”

“Sixteen, sir.” Xavier cringes. “I’d just gotten my license.”

I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

The photo wasn’t taken this long ago. There’s no way he looks that different. I knew him when he was sixteen and he was still good-looking. He just wasn’t as buff back then. The sheriff gives a wheezy, smoker laugh before handing Xavier his license and papers back.

“You should get a more recent one taken,” he suggests.

“Will do, sir.” Xavier nods.

“All right. Drive safe, kids” are the sheriff’s parting words and Xavier’s cue to toss his license facedown in the cup holder of his car and start the engine.

The rest of the ride home is uneventful and quiet, to my relief. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to addressing my freak-out earlier. But when Xavier comes to a slow stop in front of my house and kills the ignition rather than keep the car running, I know he’s about to venture down a path I don’t like.

“About earlier,” he says quietly.

“Don’t. Please.”