I shift into gear and head home.

“Your mind is occupied.”

My fork falls to my plate, my head snapping toward Anthony.

At his smile, a short laugh escapes me, and I reach for my glass of water.

Talk about triggered by word choice.

And why, all of a sudden, do people seem to notice?

Nobody noticed before when I would stare off into space and answer with a single word or a fake smile. I would go as far as to say it was preferred. Who really cares to hear what’s on your mind when it’s not of benefit to the one forced to listen? No one, that’s who.

Really, they’re just annoyed they can’t read your mind.

It’s the quiet ones the people in this world of ours can’t handle as they’re so used to silence relating to sabotage.

It’s one of those ‘oh look at her sitting there, staring, watching, and studying. I wonder what she’s up to?’ And with the number of skeletons these people have waiting to come out of their closets, it could be anything, so, the uncertainty creeps in.

Anxiety, stress, and on the list goes.

It’s no wonder the pharmacy here is always out of Xanax.

“Sorry.” I dab at my mouth with a napkin and lie, “I’m a little tired is all.”

He nods, reaching for my hand, so I place it in his and he shifts his chair to face me better. “Does it scare you, being in your home knowing someone broke in while you were sleeping?”

My mouth opens and I’m about to ask what he’s talking about, but I catch myself quickly.

Right, my car was ‘stolen’ from my garage in the middle of the night.

Thank god I remembered to delete the Ring surveillance footage before I called my mom.

Am I supposed to say yes and come off as a helpless schoolgirl?

Am I supposed to say no and allow his wheels to spin?

Letting him draw his own conclusion sounds better, so I give a tight smile and lift a single shoulder as I bring my glass to my mouth again.

“You know...” He trails.

I know that tone.

It’s the one all men use, leading and low, and I don’t want to look, but I have to.

Sure enough, his eyes are hooded and focused on my wrists, his light graze following.

“You’re eighteen soon.” He looks to me. “We don’t have to wait until next summer and rush when it gets here. We can... swim together now, set our own pace, so we’re perfectly ready for the rest when it comes.”

No.

Hell no.

I don’t want to swim.

Swimming is slow and personal.

I want to crash face-first into my wedding, not plan it.

I don’t even want to pick out the dress.