He's angry, but he still wants to see what's wrong

I snarled at the phone, trying to stay proud and angry but knowing full well that I had already forgiven her.

“Corrine? I’ll be there in two hours.”

I hung up before she had a chance to respond.

I don’t remember what I told my friends in the cabin as I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door, but they could see how important it was to me and nobody breathed a word to keep me from going.

The rainstorm that was blanketing all of California that spring was particularly mean in the dark. I drove faster than was safe, but I reasoned that my brain was feeling extra alert and focused.

Still, being alert and focused won’t stop you from hydroplaning, and after one blind curve I couldn’t stop myself from rear-ending the stalled truck in front of me.

Luckily, nobody was hurt (well, nobody except my poor minivan. The grill and bumper looked like a crinkled gum wrapper). The other driver was actually pretty reasonable about the whole thing when I explained that there was a girl involved. He took my information down and we both went on our way.

···

I pulled up in front of Corrine’s house an hour later, less concerned about my recent car accident than I was about confronting my estranged friend. She answered the door, utterly disbelieving that I was actually there.

“You drove all the way back? Just like that?”

I nodded, heart racing in my chest. Then she saw my mangled car parked on the street.

“Oh my God, Ian! What happened?!”

“I, uh—I rear-ended a guy on the way here. It’s no big deal. It’s still drivable, and the headlights work, and—uh—nevermind.”

Corrine’s beautiful blue eyes turned wet with worry, and she spun to shout to her dad that she was heading out for the night.

We took her car.

“Do you need to see a doctor?” she demanded.

“No—look, I’m fine, I promise.”

“Ian, I am so sorry about your car.”

“I didn’t drive down here to talk about my car.”

We passed under a streetlight, and I couldn’t help but smile when it illuminated her at my side: she was such a goddamn knockout. No makeup, no jewelry, blonde hair up in a simple bun, she was still the hottest girl I had ever seen. She had on a burgundy, flowy strapless dress that showed off her slender shoulders and teased at the unbelievable curves beneath. I could only imagine how hard it must have been for a girl of Corrine’s proportions to find a functional strapless bra to go with it.

We had no destination in mind, we just needed a few minutes to get used to being around each other again. I could sense that, whatever Corrine wanted to say to me, it wasn’t gonna be easy for her.

She finally pulled over near the beach—the same beach where we had filmed her first scene for that stupid werewolf movie back in October. She looked surprised when she realized where she had driven us, leading me to believe it had been entirely subconscious on her part. I couldn’t help but think that this beach meant the same thing to her that it did to me: it represented the moment that she and I became friends. If that unlikely moment—that miracle—hadn’t happened, our senior years would have been very different.

Rain hammered the windshield, casting strange, fluid shadows across the two of us as we sat there.