Gulping, I determinedly jump into my car even if it isn't standing in the same place I parked it. An old rock song starts playing from the CD inserted ages ago. It randomly plays now and then, and I celebrate inwardly when the car moves away from the forest clearing to It's My Life by Bon Jovi. It's a bumpy ride, and I sing along with the song while taking off my blouse. I'm practically shouting the lyrics, and trust me, I'm entirely tone-deaf, the person who makes babies cry. Who cares? No one is listening. "Do you always sing in the car?" A deep, familiar voice asks from behind my shoulders—startling me to the point it causes a knee-jerk reaction. I almost drive off the road, and the bobblehead of a dancing Stitch figure topple down on the floor, rolling to the back of the car. "Fuck!" I splutter, looking into the rearview mirror and getting the shock of my life—Ryan is sitting in the backseat. I freeze but somehow manage to
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