In the car, Thomas didn’t start the engine. We sat in the parking garage with the concrete walls all around us and the smell of oil and old rain.
“Em,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m fine, Thomas. Please just drive.”
He didn’t drive. He reached over and pulled me against him, awkward over the gearshift, and I pressed my face into his jacket, and I made a sound I didn’t know I could make. Something between a scream and a cough. He held on and didn’t say anything, because there was nothing to say.After a while, I sat up and wiped my face with my sleeve.
“What do we tell people?” I asked.
“Whatever you want.”
“Your mom’s going to have a field day.”
He didn’t laugh. He knew I wasn’t really joking.
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