Free Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) by Jean Haus

He
splits away from me, going around the back of my car to the passenger’s side.
“Wasn’t sure you wanted them to know you’re in group therapy.”
    I’m annoyed and startled that he can read me that
well, but as usual, I’m all honesty with him. “I’d rather they didn’t know I’m
in therapy, so thanks.”
    He nods at me from across the car’s roof before we
both get into the car.
    As we buckle our seatbelts Gabe says, “Don’t want to
ruin that Little Miss Perfect image?”
    I push the keys in the ignition and turn toward him,
my expression flat. “Nope, I don’t.”
    His brows rise the slightest bit.
    I shrug and shift into drive. “It’s not that I
really want them to think I’m perfect or that I’ve ever been perfect...it’s
just that this perfection image thing keeps me”—I pause, searching for
acceptable ambiguous words—“keeps me going sometimes.”
    I sense Gabe staring at me while I drive. The
highway keeps my attention, but my fingers tighten on the steering wheel. I
finally ask, “What?”  
    The seat creaks as if he’s sitting back. “Sorry,
you’re telling me you weren’t always Miss Perfect?”
    A boisterous laugh escapes me. “Hardly. I used to be
normally imperfect.”
    I sense his continued stare.
    “I’m having a hard time believing that.”
    “Don’t really care.”
    This time he laughs.
    The car is silent until he switches on the radio. A
popular pop song by some teenybopper pervades the space with its bubblegum
beat.
    “Seriously?” Gabe asks with an incredulous tone.
“You listen to this shit?”
    “It’s just background noise.”
    He’s soon pressing buttons, searching for a rock
station. In less than a minute, loud guitar riffs and hard drumbeats fill the
interior of the car. The song must be newer. I don’t recognize it.
    At the commercial break, Gabe turns down the radio.
“Hey, pullover.”  
    Seeing nothing but fast food places and a gas
station, I ask, “Why? Where?”
    “Burger joint.”
    “Seriously? You eat that stuff?” I whine, copying
his opinion of the radio station.
    “I’ll pretty much eat anything. Cupboards were
rarely full as a kid.”
    Well, that has me turning into the restaurant. “Can
I just go through the drive-thru?” 
    “Of course not, pull into a parking space,” he says
in an authoritative tone.
    My brow rises. Instead of arguing, I do as he
instructed. The argument isn’t worth the time.
    He reaches for the door handle, then glances at me
expectantly. “Well, come on.”
    “I’m not hungry. I’ll just wait in the car.”
    “This isn’t about hunger.”
    My look at him is quizzical.
    He grins wickedly. “It’s about completing the list.”
    Ugh. I should have guessed his intentions. “How can
you remember every single thing on that list? It’s like you have a photogenic
memory or something.”
    He taps an ear. “It’s because I heard it as you read
it. I would have remembered only half if I read it. Now come on.”
    I keep my internal grumbling, recall Jeff’s beam,
and get out of the car to follow Gabe around the back of the building and the
drive thru speaker.
    “This is not going to work,” I whisper.
    “Never know until you try,” he whispers back, then
clears his throat. “Hello?” he says loudly.
    After several long seconds, the intercom comes on.
“Um… can I help you?”
    The male voice sounds young and confused.
    “Sure can,” Gabe says. “We’ll take two fries, two
cheeseburgers, a coffee, and a”—he gestures to me.
    When I stand there, he nudges me with his elbow.
    “And an ice water,” I blurt out.
    The confused voice on the intercom repeats the order
while Gabe smirks.
    As we walk to the window, I dig in my purse.
    “Oh, no,” Gabe says. “This one is on me.”
    I keep digging. “I’ll pay for my therapy, thank
you.”
    “Put it away, April,” Gabe says in a harsh tone.
    A glance at his harsher expression has me closing
the purse. “Fine.”
    The teenager at the