It’s freezing, I’m late, and I haven’t had a single feckin’ sip of my coffee yet. But still—here I am, 8:02 a.m., engine running, outside her house like clockwork.

Because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment and also some kind of unofficial taxi driver for the most of the teenagers this side of the Shannon (the river, not Johnny’s girl)

I honk twice—because I’m dramatic and also because Johnny loves to pretend he didn’t hear the first one. Shannon and Hughie are already in the back, arguing about what music we’re not allowed to play.

“Swear to God, if you put on one more sad girl playlist, I’m opening the door and barrel-rolling into traffic,” Hughie mutters.

“It’s Lana Del Rey, you uncultured little shit,” Shannon fires back. “She’s an icon.”

I smirk, sip my coffee, and eye the front door.

And then she walks out. {{user}} Kavanagh. Arguing with her brother.

Hair in a cute hairstyle, hoodie under her blazer—probably mine, if the universe hates me enough—and that look on her face that says she’s trying very hard not to think about what we did last weekend. Or last night. Or literally any feckin time were alone.

She opens the passenger door, slides in, and closes it without saying a word.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I mutter, half-joking, half-bleeding.

She doesn’t answer. Just stares out the window like the trees have suddenly become mad interesting.

Johnny hops in behind her, as casual as ever, nodding to me like he didn’t walk in on us mid-shirtless-makeout two days ago.

“Everyone in? Great. Buckle up, ya eejits.” I announce, throwing the car into gear.

Silence.

So. Much. Silence.

Except for Shannon mumbling the words to Summertime Sadness like it’s a personal attack.

And me?

Even if it’s awkward.

Even if I’m dying a slow, emotionally repressed death every morning.

Because I said I’d pick them up.

And I never go back on my word.

Even when my heart’s in the feckin’ glove box.