“Would I lie to you?” was all she said, smiling.

I dare you, I thought. One thought in one lane, other thoughts racing like a hyperactive freeway. One thought stopped on the median and the driver got out, angry.

The dagger struck home. I still keep the skeleton in the closet, as you are supposed to do.

You know, your writing reminds me of @James Chartrand’s. You two should chat writing sometime.

I wasn’t so sure. We were on the freeway, after all, and if I stuck out my hand that far, I would surely tear it off.

“It’ll be fun! Come on. Would I lie to you?” Bobby’s enthusiasm was hard to resist.

I reached out the driver’s side window, ready to grasp the thorny bush. Edging my car closer and closer to the wall where the vanilla-scented vines draped down, I was struck with the sudden realization that Bobby wasn’t with me.

Bobby was dead.

He’d died months ago, on this very same road, the shattered glass of his windshield pierced through his chest like a dagger as he’d attempted this same dare–

My dare.

I sobbed, seeing his face, his beauty, in the seat next to me replaced by a cold, lifeless skeleton–

And then the wall was in my face.