I start my car, put it in drive. Turn on my left-hand turn signal and give my side mirror a glance: no oncoming traffic. I ease into the street and stop at the corner briefly before going right.

So far, so good. My wheel hasn’t popped off or wobbled.

Phew.

A few more blocks.

After a couple minutes, I’ve made it home, safe and sound.

My entire body relaxes, sagging with relief. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as heck wasn’t making it home safely in one piece.

I pull up to the house and slam my car into park, grab for my keys and purse. Just as I’m reaching for the door handle, my phone pings with the telltale sound of a text notification.

Unknown Number: Did you make it?

Ah—it’s Jackson. I poke at his number and program him into my phone.

Me: Yup, just arrived safe and sound. No flying metal or screeching tires. All in one piece.

Jackson: That’s good. You should be okay, just don’t forget to take your tire in. You can’t drive on that spare long.

Me: I’ll take it home this weekend and have my dad take care of it.

Jackson: I can come grab it for you. I have a buddy at the shop in town. He’s fixed my truck half a dozen times.

Me: Gosh, you don’t have to do that. I can take it home.

Jackson: How far do your folks live from campus?

Folks.

Me: A few hours, no biggie.

Jackson: How many hours is a few? Two?

Me: Four? Five if I stop to go to the bathroom a few times or shop at the outlet mall.

Jackson: You can’t drive four hours on a spare tire. I’ll come grab it and get it patched.

Me: You don’t have to do that.

Jackson: I know I don’t HAVE to. I’m not letting my friend drive on a donut—it’s not safe.

Friend.

Lord help me, I smile in the dark, still sitting in my car, out in the driveway. I wonder if Savannah is home and if she sees me out here grinning like an idiot at Jackson’s high-handedness. Or concern. Whatever we’re calling this.

Me: Oh, we’re friends now, eh?

Jackson: Yup.

Me: Just like that?

Jackson: Yup.

Me: Stop doing that.

Jackson: Yup.

Jackson: Lol. FYI I’m coming to get your tire tomorrow and I’m taking it to my buddy’s place. It won’t be until after practice, so figure around 8:00 at night. Don’t try to lift it out of the trunk on your own—I don’t want you hurting yourself.

I can tell by his tone this isn’t a battle I’m going to win, so I relent and acknowledge the gesture.

Me: That’s…really kind of you.

Jackson: I’ll remember you calling me kind next time you tell me I’m an asshole.

Me: Technically I wasn’t calling YOU kind, I said taking my tire in was kind OF you…

Jackson: Same thing.

Me: Fair enough. It IS nice of you. You are being kind. I really do appreciate it since we’re basically strangers.

Jackson: Strangers?? I bought you dinner—we’ve practically been on our first date already.

Me: OMG I knew you were going to try to ask me out! And you did not buy me dinner!

Jackson: Relax lol I’m not asking you out.

He’s not? Well this is awkward. And why does it bother me that he’s not asking me out?

Me: Oh, haha. Sorry.

Jackson: Unless you want me too haha.

Me: I don’t. haha.

Jackson: haha then I won’t.

Me: We’re going to haha ourselves into an idiot coma.

Jackson: I won’t keep you then. You’re probably sitting outside in your car on your phone when you should be inside where it’s safe.

Oh lord, is he watching me?

I crane my neck to look around, to catch sight of any big, black pickup trucks lurking in the shadows.

I don’t see one.

Me: Nah, I walked into the house a few minutes ago.

Lies, lies, lies.

Jackson: Good. Bet you’re in one of those residential areas too far from campus with shitty lighting outside. With mostly locals, not a lot of students?

Me: Er, yeah. I am. It’s the cheapest option.

But why does he care?

Maybe he doesn’t; maybe he’s just being polite because he’s Southern, and that’s what Southern boys do. Maybe his mama raised him right.

Sheesh, listen to me.

His mama.

What am I even saying?

How did I get from cursing him out in the student union and screaming at him in the middle of the road to agreeing to allow him to help maintain my dumb car?

In any case, my parents will be relieved when they hear it’s getting handled and they won’t have to worry about it, my mother especially. She worries like crazy; I know she’d have a veritable fit if I drove my car home on a crappy little spare, and Dad will be glad he won’t have to hoof it here to make sure everything is in working order.

I relent and play nice, thawing to Jackson Jennings and his quirky Southern-ness.

Me: I’ll text you my address tomorrow.

Jackson: K, sounds like a plan. G’night little one.

Little one? What’s this now?

Um…

I sit and stare at that last text from him. Little one. What? I mean, he’s huge, but I’m not exactly a waif. Maybe to him I seem small?

Little one—is that weird? That must be a Southern thing, too, right? I tap open a web browser and type in Southern slang little one to see what will pop up. Maybe he calls all girls that when he can’t remember their name?

It seems oddly specific, though, and personal.

My insides flutter.

No guy has ever said anything remotely cutesy to me like that in my entire life, let alone one I just met, or one I’m not dating—and definitely not one who is a hulking beefcake of a man-boy.

A man-boy. That sounds accurate…

A man-boy who’s confusing me.

Why is he being so nice when he acted like such an asshole on the side of the road and at the union? That’s not normal behavior—why is he doing it? The whole thing is total bullshit, and I’m going to pin him down and ask him about it.