Connection | 18+

Chapter Twelve

   And that's all I'm trying to do.

   Stand.

   Even when my knees feel like they might buckle.

   Even when I wish they would.

  "When was the first time you drank?" Ethan's voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I blink, disoriented for a second, before turning my head to look at him. He's already started the car, the low hum of the engine filling the air. I hadn't even noticed him get in or when we started moving. 

   I let my gaze linger on him for a moment, taking in the way his right arm rests casually on the open window, his veins prominent against his forearm, while his left-hand grips the steering wheel. The white T-shirt he's wearing clings to his shoulders and chest, contrasting sharply with the tailored black dress pants. He looks entirely too composed like he walked straight out of a magazine ad, but there's something dangerous simmering beneath that calm. 

   The faint scent of his cologne wafts toward me, something dark and woodsy, and it mixes with the leather interior of the car as if the car was not used much. The late afternoon sun filters through the windows, casting golden streaks across his jawline, making his sharp features look even more severe. 

   "I don't know," I say finally, dragging my attention away from the muscles in his arms and focusing out the window instead. "Fourteen, maybe fifteen. I don't really remember." 

   The truth feels heavy in the air, but not as heavy as his gaze. I can feel it on me, sharp and unyielding as if he's peeling back every layer I have. My stomach tightens under his silent judgment. It's not like he's said anything outright, but it's there, in the way his fingers tighten around the wheel, in the brief flick of his eyes toward me before returning to the road. 

   "And the first time you did drugs?" he asks, his voice low and even, but I catch the edge of something in it—curiosity or maybe disapproval. 

   I turn to face him fully, narrowing my eyes. "What, no follow-up lecture on drinking first?" 

   He quirks an eyebrow but says nothing, waiting for my answer. 

   I bite the inside of my cheek, debating whether I should tell him the truth. But then my eyes catch on the way his jaw flexes as he waits, and suddenly I don't care if he judges me. If anything, the thought of him thinking I'm a mess, someone he can't control, makes me want to push him further. 

   "When I was nineteen," I say, my voice flippant, though the truth tastes bitter on my tongue. I glance out the window again, my fingers tapping against my thigh. The memories are hazy—too many new experiences crammed into too little time to remember the firsts. "I think," I add with a shrug. 

   Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hands tighten around the steering wheel, the knuckles whitening slightly. 

   "Did Victor and Daniel never try to stop you?" he asks, his tone softer now, curious rather than accusatory. "Or was it just a rebellion phase that turned into an addiction?" His voice is soft, curious, and genuine, as if he were actually trying to understand.

   I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

   I don't respond right away, and the silence stretches, thick with unspoken things. His question hangs in the air, though, and it needles at me. 

   I turn to him, my lips curling into a smirk.

   Everyone is preachy and a goody two shoes until it's their turn to answer.

   "You're asking like you've never done anything stupid. What about you? When was the first time you did it?"

   He glances at me, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, I think I've struck a nerve. But his voice is as calm as ever when he answers. "Unlike you, I followed the rules. I was twenty-two the first time I drank. I've never done drugs and don't plan to. I hardly like drinking as it is."