A Song for Julia

attractive.
    I swallowed, trying to find words that made sense, trying to say something to calm her down, to persuade her, to make her understand that I wasn’t the kind of guy that would do to her what that guy did. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized: this wasn’t about me at all. It wasn’t about that guy, whoever the hell he was. It was about her. It was about her feeling like she’d lost who she was, feeling like she’d lost her identity, her family, and her self worth.
    I tried to imagine what she was like at fourteen, and I couldn’t. She was all woman. Proud, and angry, and isolated, and in some ways, scary as hell, but this was no innocent girl. She’d been through the wringer.
    “Tell me about the snow,” I said.
    “What?”
    “You don’t like snow.”
    “It’s cold and wet. What the hell kind of a question is that?”
    I glanced over at her. She was leaning against the door, glaring at me.
    “Tell me,” I said.
    She looked at me dismissively. “Why don’t you put on some music? Loud.”

    We have to stop meeting like this (Julia)
    Crank was right. I was being a complete bitch. It was self-defense, really. Because the more time I spent around him, the more I felt my defenses falling to pieces. It wasn’t that he was hot. I mean—I’ve been around hot guys. They’re nice to look at, but they don’t make me feel like this. It was his smile, his charm, his sense of humor. Inside that hard-ass exterior, he was compassionate. Insanely protective of his brother. I wanted to laugh at his smart aleck comments, and I wanted to touch the dimple in the corner of his mouth. I wanted to hug him and heal the hurt that had damaged him.
    I wanted to run away as quickly as I could. Because it was all I could do to keep a grip on who I was.
    He did as I asked and turned on the stereo. Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” suddenly blasted out. Jesus. I almost broke out into a sweat. How did he do that? The driving bass blasted through the car, one of the sexiest, angriest songs I’ve ever heard. I closed my eyes, still leaning against the door, and bobbed my head along with the music. It was lust and rage and hunger all wrapped up in a bow. So very much not what I needed to be listening to right now. But so much how I felt.
    A big part of me wanted to just say, screw it. Screw my reservations. Screw my walls. Give in. Give in to him. Not just for a date, but tell him to pull the damn car over right now and climb on top of him and slowly unbutton his shirt while I chewed on his ear. This music was not helping at all.
    I was jarred back to reality when Crank cursed suddenly and slapped the radio off. I opened my eyes and realized the car was sliding, and I nearly screamed. I reached out, grabbing the dashboard with both hands, bracing as we slid toward a tree. But a second later, he got it under control.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I think the temperature must have dropped. A lot. Patch of ice.”
    We were coming up Mass Ave now, close to campus. This definitely looked like a Nor’easter, dumping snow and ice very fast now. It was two or three inches deep already and getting deeper by the minute. Crank was wrestling with the wheel, overcompensating, which was making the car slide way too much for comfort.
    “I thought Boston drivers were supposed to be all that,” I said.
    He looked over at me with a fierce grin on his face. “I’ve been taking the T all my life. Practically just got my license.”
    “Please don’t get me killed.”
    He laughed. “I’ll try not to. We’re almost to the campus, which way?”
    I peered ahead. The snow was coming down thick enough it was hard to see very far. “Past the campus. Keep going, it’s about five blocks up, then take a left.”
    He nodded, concentrating on driving, both hands on the wheel and leaning forward to see.
    “Slow down,” I said, as we got closer.
    He glanced at me, simultaneously looking amused and annoyed I was being bossy. Screw him. I wanted to live. A moment later, he slowly turned off of Massachusetts Ave just as a city bus went racing past, splattering Crank’s car with snow and slush. Yuck.
    “That’s just wrong,” he muttered as the bus blasted past.
    “See the lot up there on the left?” I asked, pointing.
    “Yeah.”
    “Park in there.”
    “If I park, I’m not getting out of there again.”
    “You can’t drive any more in this … especially not all the way to Roxbury.”
    “Is this a private