Has to Be Love by Jolene Perry Page A

shouldn’t affect me so fully. “I still say it’s probably my messed-up face.”
    He frowns. “It’s not messed up, Clara. You’re beautiful.”
    Elias thinks everyone is beautiful, I’m sure.
    â€œAre you okay?” He rests a hand on my shoulder. “You seem jumpy.”
    I’m not sure how to answer. I just stare at this guy who I’ve known since I was a kid.
    â€œClara?” he asks again.
    I shake my head, wishing the action would jumble the loose parts of my thoughts together. “I really want out of here. Do you think we could get out of here?”
    His head rests to the side and his brow furrows in worry.
    I know he won’t want to skip because he never does, but maybe …“Please?”
    â€œYeah … okay.” He puts his arm around me, tucking me in to his side. “We can go.”
    We’re five cars behind the stupid speaker at the McDonald’s drive-through because it’s the only fast-food restaurant in town. Despite the wait, it feels delightfully scandalous to be here instead of at school.
    One day I’ll be living somewhere with small, trendy cafés and corner vendors, and … My gaze floats toward Elias. The guy who I’m sure will wait for me if I ask him to. It’s just a conversation I’m not ready to have, and one I can put off for another year. An uneasy feeling spreads through me in a sort of spidery way.
    â€œThe house you were designing looked cool,” I say, trying to focus on something normal, but maybe we should be pushing past our normal.
    He taps the steering wheel. “Thanks. Drawing plans for homes that small isn’t really practical up here. But it’s like when you step into a motor home and there’s not an inch of wasted space. I like the idea of that.”
    â€œHmm.”
    I stare out the window at the ravens gathered at the garbage bins and listen to the complex language as they talk to each other. They used to scare me, but not anymore. Even their beady, too-knowing eyes don’t send creepers up my spine the way they did when I was a kid. So much has changed. I glance at Elias briefly, wondering what’s going to change for us as we get older.
    My small notebook rests on my leg, and I scribble a few random sentences about the birds.
    Suddenly, Elias pulls away from the speaker toward the window.
    I turn to face him. “I didn’t tell you what I want.” How did we get so far up in line?
    His brows rise a bit. “In the two years I’ve been coming through this drive-through with you, it’s been the same thing.”
    â€œNot always,” I protest.
    â€œAlways.” A corner of his mouth pulls up like I’m adorable, but I don’t want to be adorable; I wanted to order.
    â€œNo.” I can feel myself pouting, and I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t seem to stop it.
    Elias sighs. “I’m sorry then. You were watching those nuisance birds like always. You had your notebook out, and I thought I was doing a nice thing by ordering without interrupting your train of thought.” His voice turns quiet. “What’s going on with you?”
    I want him to sound irritated or angry. I want him to give me something to push against, but there’s no pushing against someone who is genuinely concerned about what I’m thinking. What’s wrong with me?
    â€œWhy aren’t you frustrated?” I ask.
    He touches my cheek. The one closest to him. The one without the scars. I sometimes think he avoids touching that side of my face, but I can’t be sure because it just sort of happens that he’s on my left side a lot. He drives a lot. The deeper his eyes look at me and the more his hand touches my cheek and then my hair and then his fingertips slide up and down my neck, the less I think about wanting to be frustrated and the more I think about where else I’d like his hands.
    Knowing the importance