Since neither are reasonable options, I just throw my purse over my shoulder and stand.
“Kylie,” Holly says as I reach the door. “I’m not trying to…”
I wait for her to finish that.
But she can’t.
Because she’s trying to do exactly what she’s pretending not to.
“Bye, Holly,” I say and head out of the office, forcing a smile at Tonya, the receptionist, but doing my best to avoid eye contact with anyone else, lest I explode.
It’s not until I’m in my car, seatbelt buckled, hands clenched on the steering wheel that I allow myself to release the shriek of frustration.
Then I realize I’m screaming in my car. At my place of work. Where kids—and maybe their parents—are still around, attending club meetings or going to sports practices.
So, I get it together.
I’m good at that—shoving down the feelings, the rage, the hurt, the frustration and angst and sadness.
Once I’m calm, I turn on the ignition, back out of the spot and carefully navigate my way to the road that leads to my apartment.
I don’t bother with music.
I don’t want to be soothed.
I want to be angry, to rage, to sit in this injustice.
Tomorrow, I’ll come back with a clear head, will problem-solve and be all the things I should be.
But right now, I’m going to brood.
Okay? Okay.
That’s my right and no one is going to?—
Pop!
I scream as my car lurches sharply to the side, then react on instinct and wrench at the wheel. It takes every bit of strength I have to not slide off the road, to avoid the boulders and trees as I slam on the brakes and muscle my car?—
To the turnout…
To our turnout.
But then I’ve come to a stop.
I sit frozen for a long moment, just breathing, just existing.
Then I realize I’m stuck on the freaking turnout with another freaking flat tire.
And…fuck it.
That second shriek I’d bitten off back in the parking lot at school?
I let that fucker fly.
Then I drop my forehead to the steering wheel…
And I let the tears come too.
