"Let go!" I insisted. Or was it, 'let's go'? I couldn't decide. Either way, he ignored me and continued to pull me forward. I staggered along sideways across the wet sidewalk until we reached the Volvo. Then he finally freed me—I stumbled against the passenger door, forgetting how to hold my own weight because he had been holding it for so long.
"You are so pushy!" I grumbled, loving it.
"It's open," was all he responded with. He got in the driver's side.
"I am perfectly capable of driving myself home!" I stood by the car, fuming. It was raining harder now, and my hair was dripping down my back.
He lowered the automatic window133 and leaned toward me across the seat. "Get in, Bella." Those were the most beautiful three words I had ever heard, and his invitation made it hard to resist his invitation.
I struggled to not answer, mentally calculating my chances of reaching the truck before he could catch me. Even if I was able to do that, would I be able to reach the truck before I regretted having left him?
"I'll just drag you back," he threatened, guessing my plan.
I tried to maintain what dignity I could as I got into his Volvo. I wasn't successful—I looked like a half-drowned cat, my boots squeaked, and I had a big, ugly witch's scowl on my brooding teenage face.
"This is completely unnecessary," I said stiffly.
"Au contraire," he countered in French, his voice like a breaded brie that had been in the oven just a minute too long and was now oozing all over the racks; my racks. "This is completely necessary." He fiddled with the controls, turning the heater up and the music down. As he pulled out, I was preparing to give him the silent treatment—my face in full pout mode—but then I recognized the music playing. I had been drum major, solo soprano, as well as first violin back at Phoenix High School. Since the Forks High School didn't have bands, choirs, or orchestras, I had been forced to try to suppress my undying passion for music. Mostly I just listened to it alone by myself under the covers, shaking with terror that Charlie might discover me being, God forbid, cultured.
"Clair de Lune?" I asked, surprised. I was expecting that someone of his European style and grace would listen to something like Rammstein or Kylie Minogue.
133. With just a flick of the wrist.