Worth the Fall

Chapter 7

I didn’t want to say yes.

In fact, every rational, academically driven, future-lawyer cell in my body was screaming at me to say no.

No, Nessa.

Do not get into the rich emo boy’s sports car.

Do not let him drive you home.

Do not romanticize this.

Do not ruin your life before midterms.

And yet somehow, the word that came out of my mouth was:

“Yes.”

Landon’s mouth twitched like he knew exactly how much I hated myself for that answer.

“Right this way, Miss James,” he said, pushing off the wall with a smug little smile.

He held out his arm like some kind of sarcastic chauffeur, and against all reason, I laughed.

This was a mistake.

A huge one.

But apparently I was getting in the car anyway.

His McLaren was somehow even more intimidating up close.

It looked less like a car and more like something Batman would casually drive to brunch.

When he opened the passenger door for me, I climbed in carefully, like I was boarding a spacecraft I definitely could not afford to damage.

The interior was spotless.

Dark leather.

Clean lines.

That expensive, new-car smell that practically screamed you do not belong here.

So naturally, I sat completely still.

Hands folded.

Back straight.

Afraid to breathe too hard in case I somehow smudged the air.

Landon shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

The second he got in, the whole car somehow felt smaller.

Warmer.

More dangerous.

“Alright,” he said, glancing over at me as he started the engine. “Where exactly am I taking you?”

“San Francisco,” I said quietly.

His brows lifted.

“So,” he said with mock seriousness, “you’re telling me you’re not from Beverly Hills?”

I looked over at him flatly.

“Ha. Ha. So funny.”

He grinned.

And unfortunately, it looked good on him.

Like really good.

Annoyingly good.

“Are you sure your parents won’t mind you giving me a ride that far?” I asked after a moment. “I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me.”

He shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing.

“Not a problem. My parents have a loft in San Francisco. I’ll just tell them I’m staying there tonight.”

I stared at him.

Of course they had a loft in San Francisco.

Why wouldn’t they?

Probably a beach house too.

And a ski lodge.

And maybe a private island where rich people go to emotionally neglect their children in peace.

“Oh,” I said intelligently.

Landon glanced over, amused.

“Was that the moment you realized I’m insufferably rich?”

“That moment was actually yesterday,” I muttered.

He laughed.

And the sound of it did something strange to my chest.

“You must be hungry,” he said after a beat. “Want to stop and get food?”

I looked over at him suspiciously.

I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be nice…

Or if he was very subtly trying to turn this into a date.

Either way, I was starving.

“Can we stop at Jack in the Box?” I asked immediately.

He blinked.

Then laughed again.

“Jack in the Box?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in a McLaren and that’s your request?”

“I’m a woman of taste.”

“You are a woman of chaos.”

I smiled despite myself.

“So is that a yes?”

He shook his head like I was deeply confusing him.

“Whatever your heart desires, Grandma.”

I gasped.

“Grandma?”

“You’ll live.”

About fifteen minutes later, we had food.

And while I was absolutely starving, I refused to eat in this beautiful, expensive car like some kind of raccoon in designer seating.

So when Landon pulled into a scenic overlook with a view of the city glowing in the distance, I almost forgot how to breathe.

San Francisco stretched out below us in scattered gold and silver lights, the skyline softened by the fading blue of evening.

It was beautiful.

Quiet.

The kind of pretty that sneaks up on you and makes everything feel softer for a second.

Landon grabbed the food, and we headed toward a small picnic area overlooking the city.

The second I sat down, all grace and dignity left my body.

I tore into my food like I hadn’t eaten in three business days.

I could feel Landon watching me.

I ignored him and kept eating.

If he wanted elegant, he should’ve picked a girl who lied about liking salads.

“What?” I asked through a fry.

He smiled to himself.

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.”

“I’m just trying to figure out how someone that tiny can eat like a linebacker.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Tragic.”

“Very.”

He unwrapped his burger, still looking amused.

Then he asked, “What’s your favorite fast food?”

I stared at him.

“I think you know.”

He looked down at the giant Jack in the Box bag between us.

“Fair.”

He took a bite, then looked over at me again.

“What’s your favorite color?”

I paused mid-fry.

“That is such a weird question.”

“It’s called getting to know someone.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Purple.”

He nodded like this was valuable information.

“Good choice.”

“What’s yours?” I asked.

“Black.”

He said it so seriously that I laughed before I could stop myself.

He gave me a look.

“You think my favorite color is funny?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “I just think out of all the colors in the world, black is the most aggressively you answer possible.”

He leaned back against the bench, considering that.

“It goes with everything,” he said. “It can mean different things depending on who’s looking at it. Sadness. Peace. Anger. Comfort.”

I blinked.

Well.

That was unexpectedly poetic.

“That’s… actually a really good answer,” I admitted.

He looked over at me, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“I have those sometimes.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.

Of course he had to ruin the moment by being smug.

Still…

There was something about him.

Every time I thought I had him figured out, he said something that made me realize I was still only seeing the surface.

“So, Landon Baxter,” I said, brushing salt from my hands, “where do you see yourself next year?”

His expression shifted instantly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough for me to notice.

“Hopefully on tour with my band,” he said.

And unlike when he says his own name, there’s no arrogance in that answer.

Just hope.

Real, honest hope.

That catches me off guard.

“Music is what you really want?” I asked carefully.

His brows drew together.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I looked down at my fries for a second. “Is it your dream? Or just what everyone expects from you?”

He went quiet.

For a second, I worried I’d pushed too far.

Then he looked out at the city and said softly, “I don’t think I ever said a first word. I think I was singing before I could even talk.”

Something in my chest tightened.

“I can’t imagine doing anything else,” he added. “Writing songs, performing… it’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.”

And there it was.

The thing beneath the tattoos and the money and the attitude.

The real him.

“You should do it, then,” I said quietly. “If that’s what you want, you should do it.”

He looked over at me.

And I made the mistake of continuing.

“You have the kind of resources most people would kill for,” I said. “You actually have a shot.”

The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d said them wrong.

His whole expression changed.

The warmth disappeared.

Not all at once.

Just enough to sting.

“Am I supposed to feel bad for being afforded options?” he asked, his voice suddenly colder.

(Chapter Theme song: Sparks by Coldplay)