"Thank you," she whispers.
Two words. That's all.
But they hit me harder than they should, because there was a time when she stopped saying thank you altogether.
When she stopped seeing me as a person and started seeing me as an obstacle between her and her next fix.
"You're welcome," I say, pulling back onto the highway.
The sun is starting to set by the time we cross the Pennsylvania border.
The sky bleeds orange and pink and purple, painting the mountains in colors that remind me of the first time I kissed her.
We were seventeen, sitting on the tailgate of this same truck—different engine, same frame—watching the sun go down over Morgantown.
She tasted like cherry lip gloss and Mountain Dew, and I remember thinking that I would die happy if I could kiss her every day for the rest of my life.
I got my wish.
I married her two years later.
And now I'm driving her to rehab because the girl I fell in love with has been slowly killing herself for the better part of a decade.
Funny how life works out.
"Do you remember our first kiss?" Vanna asks, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.
I glance over at her.
She's watching the sunset, her profile silhouetted against the fading light.
Even now, even after everything, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Yeah," I say. "I remember."
"I was so nervous." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "I'd wanted you to kiss me for months, and when you finally did, I forgot how to breathe."
"You weren't the only one."
She turns to look at me, and for a moment, I see her.
The real her.
The girl who used to laugh so hard she snorted.
The girl who dared me to chase her across Mountaineer Field.
The girl who said yes when I asked her to marry me, even though we were too young and too broke and everyone said we were making a mistake.
"I'm sorry," she says. "For everything. I know I've said it before, but?—"
"Don't." I shake my head. "Not tonight. Tonight, let's just... be us. Before everything went wrong."
She's quiet for a long moment.
Then she nods, reaching across the console to take my hand.
Her fingers are cold and thin, but they fit against mine the same way they always have.
