Chapter 7
With their ears still ringing, they drove back to Iowa City, headlights piercing the darkness ahead. It was past 2 a.m., and they were running on fumes—exhausted, exhilarated, and still wired from the concert.
The show had been a sensory overload: pulsing lights, screaming fans, and music that hit like a freight train. Matthew slumped in the passenger seat, his head tipped back, a tired but satisfied look on his face.
“Okay, I admit it,” he said, his voice rough from shouting over the crowd. “They’re catchy as hell.”
Alex shot him a sidelong glance. “Told you so. Who’s your favorite?”
Matthew hesitated a moment, caught off guard.
What was that guy’s name, the one who looked kind of like Alex? He was really . . .
He stopped abruptly, suddenly conscious of where that thought was headed.
“Umm . . . the one with the hair,” he stammered, waving his hand over his head. “You know.”
Alex laughed at Matthew’s evasion. “Ooo, good answer, Hargrove. Real specific.”
“Gimme a break. You’re the BTS fan. I can’t keep those names straight.”
Before Alex could respond, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning followed by a menacing rumble of thunder. Moments later, a few spatters of rain hit the glass and quickly developed into a full-throated downpour.
Alex cursed under his breath, easing off the gas as the road turned slick.
“Good ol’ Iowa weather,” Matthew muttered, leaning toward the windshield, looking into the darkness ahead. “Gotta love it.”
Alex tightened his grip on the wheel, his focus narrowing as the storm intensified. “Yeah, you never know from one minute to the—oh shit!”
A shadow loomed on the road—a twisted chunk of metal debris. Alex swerved, but too late. The vehicle jolted, a sickening thud reverberating through the frame. For a heartbeat, they held their breath, but then the telltale wobble started, the right front tire deflating fast.
“Damn it,” Alex hissed, wrestling the SUV onto the shoulder.
The rain hammered down as they climbed out, the cold biting through their jackets. Matthew knelt down, squinting at the damage—a gash in the tire, the wheel rim scuffed up but intact.
“Welp . . . looks like the spare’s our only shot.”
Alex hovered, hands shoved in his pockets.
“I . . . uh, I’ve never done this before. Back home, we’d just call Triple A or whatever.”
Matthew looked up with a wry smile. “Don’t worry—I’ve got this.”
They dug out the spare tire and jack from the cluttered cargo space as the rain soaked their hair and dripped down their necks. Matthew squatted down by the wheel and got to work, his biceps straining against the stubborn lug nuts with the tire iron.
Alex hunched down beside him, looking a bit lost. He watched as Matthew’s calloused hands worked the tire iron with practiced force until each lug nut finally gave.
“Got ‘em. Hard part’s done,” Matthew said, not looking up. “Grab that spare for me while I get this one off.”
Alex reached back, fumbling for it. In his haste, he lost his balance and grabbed at the wheel hub to steady himself. A sharp metal edge caught his palm, slicing it open. Blood welled up fast, swirling into the rain like ink.
“Ow—damn!” he yelped, jerking back. His stomach heaved at the sight, a wave of nausea he tried to mask with a shaky laugh. “It’s fine, I’m good.”
Matthew’s head snapped up, eyes zeroing in on the cut.
“Let me see that,” he said, his voice suddenly serious.
He grabbed Alex’s hand and turned it to catch the glow of the headlights. Blood streaked down his fingers.
“It’s nothing,” Alex said, his voice unsteady.
“Well, it’s not nothing, but it doesn’t look too deep,” Matthew said, holding his hand steady as he examined the cut. “It’s messy enough to need wrapping, though. Hang on.”
He went back to the tailgate and rummaged around in the cargo space, returning with a dusty first-aid kit he’d spotted earlier—he guessed it was some relic that belonged to Alex’s brother. Matthew dug into it, pulling out gauze and tape with the calm of someone who’d patched up more than a few scrapes.
“Hold still,” he said, pressing the gauze to Alex’s palm and wrapping it securely. “You’re okay.”
Alex nodded and watched mutely as Matthew finished dressing the wound.
“There,” he said. “That should do for now.”
“Thanks, man,” Alex mumbled, gently flexing his hand to see how it felt.
“No worries. We’ll need to clean it better when we get home, though.”
Matthew crouched back down and finished the tire change in silence, the rain easing to a drizzle as he finally lowered the jack. He wiped his hands on his wet jeans.
“Christ, we’re both soaked,” he groused. “Wish we had towels or something. Oh well, nothing we can do about it now. Get in, Kim. I’m driving.”
Alex opened his mouth to argue, but the exhaustion—and the bandage on his hand—won out. “Fine. But only ‘cause you’re bossy.”
Matthew snorted dismissively and jogged around to the driver’s side while Alex climbed into the passenger seat. He slid behind the steering wheel—his waterlogged jeans squelching on the vinyl upholstery—and cranked the engine. They pulled onto I-80, the spare tire humming beneath them.
Alex leaned back and let the rain’s soft patter lull him as the miles ticked by. Matthew was humming a tune under his breath—“Dynamite,” of course—a faint echo of the evening they’d just shared. Alex’s lips curved into a sleepy smile, his bandaged hand resting in his lap.
The rain, the road, Matthew—everything blurred together in a haze of exhaustion. Even though he was soaked to the bone, Alex felt oddly content.
As the storm faded behind them, the world dissolved into a dream.
