“Have you spoken to Iz?” Jesus. Rip my heart out, why don’t you? I’m about to answer when I hear a distinct, faint jingle through the line.
“Gage?” Caleb prompts, but I’m still stuck on hearing Isabelle’s earrings as they swish. Fuck, she’s gone to my brother because I won’t answer her. I’m so disappointed in myself, but it’s like I can’t bring myself to look at her after I put her at risk. My mind keeps going back to August, and my heart turns to stone, promptly shattering when it forces images of Isabelle meeting the same fate.
“Is she okay?” I whisper, because I still need to hear it, even if I’m too weak to ask her myself.
“She’s not physically hurt if that’s what you’re asking.” Caleb’s words are firm and brutal. “Why won’t you talk to her?”
“Did she tell you that?” Does she blame me? Forgive me? Her texts don’t give me that impression, but it feels too good to be true. She always feels too good to be true.
“I’m taking a wild guess,” Caleb mutters, and fuck, she must be bad. I’ve dimmed her light, just like I knew I would.
“She could have been hurt.” The words drag against my throat as I deliver them for judgement.
“She is hurt,” he says.
I’m clutching the desk, leaning into the phone as if I can reach through it just to get to her. “You just fucking said she wasn’t.”
“I said physically. You ignoring her is something different.”
I can hear the tinkering of her earrings again. The musical note that’s sweet and playful, just like her.
“I didn’t look after her,” I say, then hang up the phone, my head and my heart heavy.
There’s a knock against the open door of the office, followed by Tuck sticking his head in.
“Hey, mate.” He drops into the seat opposite the desk.
“Hey. I had the apprentice do a stock check. I just popped in an order for some shit. Bookings are staying nice and steady, though.”
Tuck nods, humming his agreement. “They are. What about you? How are you doing?”
I sigh. “Same as when you asked me yesterday.”
“And I normally wouldn’t push, but you’re a grumpier bastard than normal.”
I rest an elbow on the desk, running a hand through my hair before I prop my chin on my fist, staring at my friend.
Tuck sits there without judgement, ready and waiting to be an ear, a sounding board, whatever I need.
I take a deep breath, then faceplant the desk with a groan. “I fucked up.”
“You? Mr Perfect? I don’t believe it,” he teases.
When I pin him with a glare, I can see his mouth twitching behind his beard. “You’re a shit.”
“Whatever you did, I’m sure it’s not as bad as what you’re punishing yourself for.”
“It wasn’t just me in the car that night.”
As soon as I say the words, Tuck’s face shifts to serious, and he leans over to lay his hand over one of mine.
“Are they okay?”
I nod my head, but I can’t make myself speak.
“Any injuries at all? I know you said the other drivers were fine.”
“She was fine.” I nod without meeting his eyes.
