Bruises • Luke Hemmings a.u

Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.

The roads are wet. The tyres of the car ahead spraying the windshield as I drive Lukes car. The red L plates stuck on the front and back: learner plates, as I try and treat this like another driving lesson with Uncle Jack.

He's letting me drive his car home. To our home. Where I will see him everyday. Where things will go back to normal. Or as normal as they can be.

Luke hasn't said much since he picked me up. Simply explained he has put me on the insurance and that I can drive us home.

I'm a nervous driver. Scared of the road conditions and other drivers too impatient, speeding around me, over taking me. I'm over hesitant, scared when to go at round-abouts and nervous of stalling the car at traffic lights.

We have to take the long way home, as a learner, I'm unable to drive on the motorway, and it adds hours onto the ETA, but Luke apparently doesn't seem to mind.

He's looking out of the passenger window, his seat far back, as if he's almost laying back, calm, relaxed, with no fear that I'm driving. But his fingers busy themselves. Nervously tapping, or rubbing over the scruff on his chin.

While he may be trying to appear to be relaxed, I can tell he's not. Whether it's nervousness from my driving or our current circumstances, I'm not sure, but I assume it's the latter.

I'm scared he won't look at me how he used to. Give me his gentle touches how he used to, and it makes me nervous.

So fucking nervous.

Unsure how to act around him. I'm scared things will be so different between us, our dynamic of how we used to be will be lost forever.

"Overtake this car, just make sure you're always checking your mirrors," he says, the thoughts in my head lost at his words, as he nods to the car ahead.

I do as he says, checking the mirrors and the blind spot, before indicating and switching lanes, but when I speed up, the car groans loudly.

"You need to change gears. Up it to fifth gear," he instructs.

My foot pushes down the clutch, and I attempt to change the gear, my hand circling, trying to push it in place, unable to put it in the correct gear.

His large hand envelopes over mine, over the gear stick, the small touch covers my skin in goosebumps.

He guides my hand, and puts in into the correct gear with ease, and if I was thinking straight, and not focusing on how his touch still makes my body react to him, I would have tried to study the motion better, to improve my driving skills, but that's not what I focus on.

All I can think is that he's touching me, willingly, such an innocent act, but he's touching me by his own free will, and he's not disgusted by me. Not repulsed or triggered or traumatised.

This is the fastest I have ever driven a car, going the national speed limit on the dual carriageway, the trees blurring at the side of the road, and it makes me nervous. I'm just so fucking nervous, but his hand is still over mine, and I wonder if he knows how even the smallest touches from him sends waves of energy through me. His touch always igniting something deep within my chest.

"You cold?" He asks, his hand gliding up from my hand, over my forearm, his fingers tracing over the goosebumps.

I shake my head, my eyes still on the road.

I'm not cold. He knows I'm not. The heating of the car is warm, almost suffocating, and I feel like I can't breathe, but I don't think that has anything to do with the temperature.