When the World was Flat (and we were in love) by Ingrid Jonach

SUV.
    I followed, stepping over the debris of the rear bumper, which had been ripped off by the 6.18. I thought I was going to be sick again as Tom reached for my arm and helped me into the passenger seat. Not on his leather seats, I thought, as my stomach lurched.
    Tom shut the door and I leaned my forehead against the window until my stomach settled. When I lifted my eyes I saw Melissa through the dusk with her arms crossed and an expression icy enough to halt global warming.
    â€œAre you OK? Are you sure?” Tom asked again, as he climbed into the driver seat and started the engine. His eyes searched mine as if looking for the answer. I nodded and then looked down at my hands, not wanting to be sucked into their depths.
    A low hiss escaped his lips when he spotted my elbow. He reached under his seat and pulled out a first aid kit, before taking my arm. I had to remind myself to breathe as he swabbed the cut with antiseptic and applied the plaster gently to my elbow, running his fingers up and down until it adhered.
    â€œYour hands are shaking,” he said, turning up the heat. “You might be in shock.” He leaned into the back seat and produced a black jacket. “Here. Put this on.”
    â€œThank you,” I whispered.
    He acknowledged my thank you with a nod. “I think you should go to hospital,” he said, releasing the handbrake.
    â€œNo. Please.”
    He studied me suspiciously. “You might need stitches.”
    I shook my head. As silly as it sounded, I was thinking of Jackson. He had just committed a misdemeanor, if not a felony. He could go to jail.
    â€œLillie! You could have been killed,” Tom argued.
    â€œPlease, Tom.”
    He considered me for a moment, before turning his attention to the road. “Fine.” He flicked on the blinker and pulled out, carefully crossing the railroad tracks and maneuvering around the hatchback, where Jackson was sitting in the dirt, holding his nose.
    It was at least a minute before I broke the silence. “When you said you lived at Rose Hill, I thought you meant as a guest.”
    â€œI did. It belongs to my grandmother,” Tom said curtly.
    The silence settled again.
    â€œI liked the ballroom,” I finally said. “And the gardens.” I hesitated, glancing at him sideways. “The greenhouse–”
    â€œThe greenhouse is out-of-bounds,” Tom interrupted. “There should be a sign. I told George–”
    â€œHis name is Fredrick,” I snapped.
    Tom looked at me and his guard seemed to slip for a second. “Really?” He turned his attention to the road again as we pulled onto my street.
    â€œWhy were you at the railroad crossing?” I asked quickly before the opportunity passed by like the houses through my window.
    He hesitated for a moment or two before he spoke and I thought he was going to sidestep the question. “I was off track,” he finally said and then added, “Mind the pun.”
    I looked at him with a small smile. “Did you just make a joke?”
    His lips twitched. “I guess I did.”
    I laughed.
    He pulled up in front of my house and then turned in his seat. “Are you sure about your arm?”
    I nodded.
    â€œPositive?”
    â€œPromise,” I said with another laugh.
    â€œYou like to laugh, don’t you?”
    â€œAnd you don’t.” It was supposed to be a question, but it sounded like a statement.
    â€œI used to,” he said, looking at me sideways. For a moment I thought he was going to spill his secrets, but then he took off his seatbelt and leaned across to open my door.
    As his hand rested on the door handle, I saw the knuckles on his right hand were grazed and swollen. I reached out and touched them tenderly.
    He looked up at me and my lips tingled with anticipation, but then he flicked open the door and sunk back into his seat.
    â€œNight,” he said.
    â€œNight,” I echoed, climbing