Shaking my head, I fiddled with the strap of my seat belt. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He was quiet as he pulled out in traffic. “You didn’t?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Seems like a pretty obvious question, though. I mean, we don’t have the same lives anymore, do we?” he asked.
I peeked at him. He was staring straight ahead. One hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on his thigh. My natural reaction was just to stay quiet. If I did, I knew Rider would move on to something else, but I put that out there. I had to own it. I couldn’t stay quiet forever.
Drawing in a shallow breath, I focused on the red truck in front of us. “We don’t, but I...I really don’t think about it. That’s why I didn’t think twice about...the café.”
“I’m as comfortable in a place like that as I am anywhere else,” he replied after a few moments, his voice level but devoid of any emotion.
Glancing over at him, I felt like a total tool. “I’ve probably...offended you. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t,” he responded, squinting. “Honestly.”
I nodded as I pressed my lips together. There was so much that Rider and I shared in the past, but sometimes it felt like there was a gulf between us. I could sit here and think about it or I could try to forge a bridge over that gulf.
Forcing my fingers to relax around the seat belt, I dropped my hands to my lap. “In...class yesterday, it sounded like...you and Mr. Santos know each other.”
“He helped me out when I got busted tagging the school,” he replied. “Thought I told you that.”
“It seemed like...more than that.” I glanced at him. “He put...your artwork in a gallery.”
Rider didn’t respond immediately. “He’s kind of kept an eye on me since the tagging incident. He’s like that, you know. Pays attention.” One shoulder rose. “He’s always checked in. Doesn’t see what others do.”
“What...do you mean?”
His fingers tapped off the steering wheel. “He doesn’t just see neighborhoods and addresses or any of that crap.” Pausing, he looked over at me as we hit a stoplight. “He’s been on my ass about pursuing a future in art. Talked to me about looking into MICA.” He laughed, shaking his head. “He has lofty goals.”
Maryland Institute College of Art was a well-known art school in the city. Like one of the best. “If Santos thinks you have...what it takes to go there, why wouldn’t you?”
His brows flew up. “I’m pretty sure a semester there costs more than a brand-new car.”
“What about financial aid?”
He didn’t respond.
And I didn’t drop it. Not for the same reasons Carl was hounding him the night before, but because Rider had real talent. “If not MICA, there are cheaper...colleges. Ones easier to get into.”
“I know,” he replied, and that was all he said.
I frowned as I studied him. “When we were younger, you talked about going to college. You did when I...didn’t.”
His hand tightened on the steering wheel. “I was a kid then, Mouse.”
“So?”
“Things are different now.”
“Things are better now,” I replied. “Aren’t they?”
He slowed down, turning onto a narrow side road. “Have you noticed that when you feel strongly about something, you don’t take pauses?”
I had noticed that, and part of me was thrilled he’d paid close enough attention to recognize it. But seriously, that wasn’t what we were talking about. “Things are better, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Mouse,” he said with a sigh.