As cruel as it sounds, it would be easier.
But then again, love is never easy, is it? Instinct wins out in the end.
It always will.
I push myself away from the window. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Callum eyes me warily. “Just like that?”
I shoot him a look. “You can stay here if you want.”
His lip twitches up into not quite an amused expression but close to it. “And let you two have all the fun? Nah.”
We bundle up into our jackets and boots and head out.
Outside, the wind bites through my jacket but the cold clears my head enough to think in short, sharp bursts.
Contacting Noelle like this, or rather ambushing her, is either going to be the best decision we’ve ever made or the worst.
There’s no middle ground anymore.
It’s either reconciliation or total implosion.
Dean takes the driver’s seat without a word, his jaw clenched tight as he starts his car.
The windshield fogs up immediately when the car starts and he swipes the defroster on with a little more force than necessary.
His knuckles are white against the steering wheel as we get going, tendons standing out under the skin.
I can tell from the way he takes each turn that he’s barely holding himself together.
None of us ever planned for this.
None of us ever thought we’d have to fight to stay in her life.
That we’d be the ones walking the fine line between loyalty to our friend and love for a woman who’s carried our child and trying not to lose both.
We were supposed to be the ones who made her world safer, not the ones tearing it apart.
The ride over is suffocatingly silent.
The only sounds are the rhythmic hum of the tires over the road and the faint rattle of change in the cup holder every time we hit a patch of slush.
Callum’s in the backseat tapping two fingers against his knee in a restless, uneven rhythm.
His eyes stay fixed on the world outside his window.
The closer we get to Noelle’s street, the tighter my chest feels.
When we finally pull up in front of her house, I draw in a deep breath, holding it until it burns when I exhale.
Thankfully, there’s no sign of Richard’s truck in the driveway.
Dean kills the engine and leans back in his seat.
The house looks quiet from here, the curtains drawn over the front windows, blocking the view inside.
There’s a wreath on the door, simple and homemade, that looks just as old as the house does.
