The awkward silence filling the car is only made worse by Andrew's blasé demeanor as he drives to a small cemetery used only by the original Blue Mountain Pack bloodline, closed over a hundred years ago to new burials.
He doesn't ask me anything. Doesn't even give me the old side-eye as his arm rests casually over the steering wheel. Just drives to where I told him to go, content to keep his silence and let me do whatever I want without explanation.
Predictably, in the face of such loyalty from someone I once considered an enemy, it makes me squirm in my seat.
I mean, should I thank him for playing along, or pretend nothing's happening? It isn't like I've had the opportunity to be well-versed on the proper routine for best friend-level reliability.
In my lap, my fingers twist around each other, over and over, until I finally blurt out, "Thanks for going along with me."
"No problem."
And that's the end of the conversation.
