Rafe secured their backpacks using bungee cords, while Violet kept checking over her shoulder. So far, Mrs. Jeffries was just watching them, but she was positive the office lady knew who they were, and she was equally sure they could expect letters in their permanent files when they returned to school. When Rafe reached out for her, Violet let him help her climb on clumsily behind him.
She felt wobbly on the bike, and she waited for Rafe to give her a quick lesson on how this would work, explaining to her where she should put her hands and her feet . . . to give her some instructions about motorcycle etiquette. Instead, he started the engine. It rumbled up through her entire body but was muffled through the thick layers of foam that lined her helmet.
“Hold on,” he called over his shoulder, his only piece of advice before he hit the accelerator and took off, leaving the school and Mrs. Jeffries behind.
She was surprised when they pulled to a stop in the nearly empty parking lot of Wally’s Drive-In, not that she’d given a lot of thought to where, exactly, they were headed. She sort of thought they’d go to the Java Hut, where other kids from school would go if they were ditching class. Rafe didn’t exactly seem like a Wally’s kind of guy.
Violet turned around to squint at the restaurant behind her. Java Hut might be where all her friends hung out, but if Buckley had a tourist attraction it was definitely Wally’s. People came from all over to eat at the drive-in burger joint. There wasn’t a kid in town who didn’t love pulling up to one of Wally’s menu boards, which were set up in each individual parking space, then having their food delivered right to their car.
Rafe pulled off his helmet as he dropped the kickstand in place. From behind, Violet could see that his dark hair was rumpled, but after he ran his fingers through it a few times, it fell into place, as if on command.
Violet wished her hair would be so manageable. She knew what hers must look like as she stripped off her own helmet. She could feel her curls twisting and coiling, tickling her cheeks and standing up riotously all over her head.
“I hear this place has great shakes,” Rafe said, stepping off the bike gracefully and leaving Violet feeling somewhat trapped on the machine. He reached out to give her a hand.
She stared at him, suspicious of his words. “Who told you that?”
Rafe just shrugged. “Everyone says it. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. I figured it was something everyone here in Podunk knew.” He spent extra time saying the word Podunk, making it more than clear what he thought of her hometown.
He was right, of course. Everyone did know about Wally’s shakes. But it was hard to imagine Rafe carrying on an entire conversation with anyone about milk shakes.
She took his hand and eased off the motorcycle. It hadn’t been bad, the ride. Not nearly as perilous as she’d imagined it would be. If she was being honest, and she supposed she could be—at least in the privacy of her own thoughts, right?—it had even been sort of fun. Sort of. In an I-can-barely-breathe-because-I’m-a-little-terrified kind of way.
And if she was being completely honest, she might even admit there were moments there when she’d allowed herself to relax—brief snippets of time when she hadn’t been thinking about the accident, or about whether she was holding on tight enough, or too tight, or listening to the whine of the engine—when she’d felt sheer exhilaration as they whipped down the highway. When she felt free.
Although she’d never admit as much out loud. And never to Rafe.
They went inside and ordered—a chocolate shake for him and a peanut butter chocolate chip one for her. The woman behind the counter gave them a strange look, probably because it was only eight in the morning and milk shakes weren’t much of a breakfast. Or maybe because it was obvious they should’ve been at school.
Either way, they took a booth as far from the counter as possible. The red vinyl booths were retro-style, looking like they were made from vintage car seats, and there were pictures of icons like Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando, James Dean, Elvis, and even some of Betty Boop plastered all over the walls. With the black-and-white-checkered tiling on the floors, it was like stepping into an old-fashioned soda shop.
Rafe, never one to mince words, got straight to the point. “It’s been months since the kidnapping, and you still don’t seem like yourself.” Stony-faced, he watched Violet as she toyed with her straw, swirling it through the thick ice cream. When she didn’t answer, he tried again. “I thought that, maybe, getting rid of that imprint thing might make things better for you.”
She glanced up, shrugging noncommittally. “I don’t really know yet,” she told him truthfully. “It wasn’t just that,” she admitted, but it wasn’t an easy subject for her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s gone. I hated being reminded of what I’d done—”
“Of what you had to do,” he interrupted, his jaw tight and his voice filled with emotion. “No one blames you for that. You did what you had to do, V. If you hadn’t, you’d be dead.”
“Right. I had to,” she agreed, sounding less than convinced. “But it was still hard to be reminded all the time.” She took a breath. “Getting rid of the imprint doesn’t change the fact that when I close my eyes . . .” And she did then, she closed her eyes. “. . . he’s still there.”
She felt his fingers cover hers, and her eyes flew open once more. “V . . . I . . . I’m so sorry. . . .”