“Is this an eighty-six? A CJ?” Carly asks.

“You know cars?” Luka asks.

“All my brothers are into Jeeps. They think it’s the perfect ride. Can’t live with all those guys and not pick up a little bit of info.”

“Or a little talent for paintball.” Luka grins down at her.

Carly looks up at him through her lashes. “That, too.”

“It’s a YJ. Eighty-seven,” Jackson says. He opens the driver’s side door and pushes the seat forward. “In you go,” he says to Carly, then tosses the keys to Luka so he can go around and unlock his door.

Carly clambers in, sees me standing there, and shoots me a narrow-eyed look, as if to say, What are you still doing here?

Jackson turns to me.

“I need my bag,” I say.

“Do you now?” His voice is like warm chocolate.

I press my lips together, trying to figure out what he’s playing at. I need to develop a strategy to avoid whatever it is he has planned.

We stand there for a few seconds, then he very deliberately sets my bag on the backseat, basically shoving Carly over to make room for it and trapping her at the same time. He takes a step back and makes a half turn, so I’m between him and the Jeep.

“In you go,” he says to me, and smiles. Not a nice smile. One of his wolfish, I’m-the-one-in-charge smiles. And then I get it. He did this on purpose.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, appalled.

His smile doesn’t dim. “Helping you and Carly have a nice friendly conversation.” He leans close, so his lips are against my ear, sending shivers all the way down to my toes. “I want you happy, Miki, and fighting with your best friend doesn’t make you happy.”

I gasp and pull back. He wants me happy, and he’s trying to offer me a way to get there. Controlling, cocky asshole—who’s actually trying to do something incredibly nice. I ought to be furious at being maneuvered into this situation. Except, all he’s doing is trying to give me the chance to work things out with my best friend, so how can I be mad at him for that?

I shoot a look at Luka. He’s in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, but I can see that the corner of his mouth is curved up. He was in on it. That must be what Jackson whispered to him. He told Luka to call shotgun so Carly and I would be stuck together in the back. He planned this all along.

Carly starts to push my bag out of the way, no doubt hoping to scramble across the seat and make her escape. Jackson reaches in, sets his palm against the bag, and holds it in place.

“This is not funny!” she says. “You did this on purpose! I can’t believe you did this!” I’d think she’s accusing Jackson, except she’s looking at me.

“We don’t like being played,” I say, looking at Jackson, then Luka. Carly’s gaze shoots to mine and I see a tiny bit of softening there as she realizes this was their ploy, not mine. “Just give me my backpack, and I’ll go.”

“No,” she says, and shakes her head as she heaves a huge sigh. “Get in. They’re right. We should talk.” She pauses. “Did you really think you sent me that text?”

I nod. “I really did.”

She pulls my backpack a little closer to her and reaches over top of it to pat the seat.

I take a deep breath. I’m angry with her. She’s angry with me. And it’s all just stupid. What are we fighting over? Aliens could decimate our world today, or tomorrow, or the next day. I could die in the game like Richelle.

I could die outside the game, like Mom.

The only thing that’s really certain is this moment. The only thing I can control a hundred percent are the choices I make right now.

“Fine,” I say, and climb in, making my choice.

Carly reaches into her backpack and pulls out her cigarettes. So much for being conciliatory. Puffing smoke in my face isn’t the best way to start this conversation, and she knows it.

“Not in my car,” Jackson says, his voice like steel.

Carly looks at him. I don’t turn my head to see his expression, but I can imagine it: hard, implacable. Whatever Carly sees in his face, she tucks the pack of cigarettes away.

Jackson’s a careful driver. No rolling stops. The music set to a reasonable volume. Hands in the perfect safe-driving position on the wheel. I’m a little surprised. I would have expected him to be way more cocky. When I mention it, Luka laughs and says, “Insurance is a killer. Even one ticket would bump it into astronomical.”

“And I have no intention of losing my wheels because I got cocky.” The line sounds practiced, like Jackson’s saying what’s expected rather than what’s true.

“But cocky is your middle name,” I say sweetly.

Beside me, Carly snorts.

I take that as an opportunity. I already told her I meant to send the text, but I think that showing her again—now that she actually might be willing to look—will cement her belief. I pull out my phone, tilt it so she can see, and say, “I really did think I hit Send. My bad.”

She stares at the phone for a long time. Her lips pinch, then relax, and she says, “Your bad.”

At least she’s talking to me.

We go to a place on Mt. Hope. It’s not very busy. Probably because we’re past the lunch rush and too early for the dinner rush. Maybe because it’s pretty new—slate tiles, bright yellow walls, shiny counters. We head for a booth. Jackson gestures for Carly to slide in. She does and he sits beside her. Luka slides in across from her, which leaves me across from Jackson.