The Impossible

After school, by the time I get out of my car at home, Chase's truck is idling at the curb while he taps at his phone for a second before getting out and walking towards me. I can't watch him, his warm skin burnished in the fall sunlight, his shoulders flat, broad planes coming at me like a walking hug.

It makes me think things that aren't helpful. So I head for the door, and he follows.

I offer him a drink that he refuses. We both drop our bags, and after an awkward moment, settle on the couch. I don't turn the TV on. My entire body hums—and not in the nice way. I'm vibrating with irritation and confusion.

Chase sits on the other end of the sectional and puts his arm up on the back of the couch, watching me, like it's my move.

Well, fuck this. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

"How come you can talk in my head? Can you read my mind?"

Chase's eyes widen. "No! It's not like that. I told you, I can sometimes hear how you're feeling . . ."