When You're Ready by Britni Danielle

couldn’t help but match her grin. I thought she was going to give me shit for showing up at her job unannounced, but she looked too exhausted to be upset. I grabbed her hand and we walked to my car. When we got inside, Nola handed me a ten-dollar bill.
    “What’s this?”
    “Gas money,” she said with a straight face.
    I broke out laughing. “Seriously?”
    “I give Tara gas money for taking me home sometimes. Since we don’t know each other that well yet, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you or something.”
    “Nola, I showed up at your job to give you a ride because it’s late and I was worried about you. How could you be taking advantage of me ?”
    She shrugged. “I dunno. I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to get over on you. We’re friends, Scout. I want you to know I appreciate you.”
    Friends . The last thing I wanted to do was be Nola’s fucking friend . Thinking she needed to pay for my gas was bad enough, but now she just wanted to be friends?
    I tore out of the parking lot and headed toward her apartment, speeding down the empty streets reeling from the F-bomb. I had enough friends back in Pacoima; I didn’t need to add a gorgeous one to the mix. Besides, I didn’t want to be Nola’s BFF. I wanted to be her man.
    I gripped the steering wheel and punched on the gas as we headed down Wilshire. I had to convince Nola I could be more than just a friend, more than some guy who gave her rides from work and helped her with her paper. I had to make her realize how serious I was about getting to know her and opening my heart—whatever was left of it anyway.
    By the time we got to La Brea I decided I would be Nola’s friend— until I could show her I wanted so much more.
    “Hey, you okay?” Nola asked. I turned to glance at her and saw her eyes knitted in concern.
    “Yeah, I’m cool. Why? What’s up?”
    “It’s just…you’re squeezing that steering wheel so hard it might break off in your hands, and you’ve been speeding like one of those crazy pizza delivery guys in that commercial.”
    “What?” I asked, thrown for a loop.
    “You know those commercials where the pizza is bouncing all around while the guy does like 100 miles-per-hour? That’s you right now, Scout.”
    I winced, but didn’t say anything.
    “Look, I really appreciate you giving me a ride tonight…and earlier today. And yesterday,” she said, and I loosened my grip on the wheel. “It means a lot to me. I owe you big time.”
    “It’s nothing,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Nola shook her head and placed her hand on my arm; I flinched. “Scout, it’s totally not nothing ,” she snapped her finger, “I know. I’ll make you dinner. Just as a thank you.”
    “Dinner?”
    “Yeah, it will be awesome! Let’s see,” she tapped her chin, “what’s your favorite meal?”
    I glanced over at her and she was looking at me expectantly. “I don’t really have one.”
    “What?” she gasped. “How can you not have a favorite meal?”
    I shrugged, it had just worked out like that. Growing up, I ate so infrequently anything I had instantly became my favorite meal because I never knew where the next one was coming from. Explaining this to Nola, however, was out of the question.
    “What did your mom cook the most when you were younger?”
    “My mom didn’t really cook a lot,” I said flatly, not adding the part about her being too busy scoring drugs to care about whether I lived or died.
    “Mine either, actually. My dad cooked a lot . He was really good at it, too. Did your dad cook?”
    Yes, crack , I wanted to say, but didn’t. “Not really.”
    “So what did you eat growing up?” She asked, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable with her innocent line of questioning.
    I hunched my shoulders and floored it again. “Mostly stuff from a box. Hamburger Helper and whatnot.”
    I saw Nola watch me from the corner of my eye. “Okay,” she said.