Pulling enough bills from his wallet to pay for our meal and the tip, he drops them onto the table and stands.
I follow behind him out of the restaurant and into the parking lot, each of us stepping harshly against the asphalt until we reach our car. No held hands, no giggling or rushing so much that we forget to secure our seat belts. No making out with each other at every red light.
When Tripp opens the passenger's side door for me, he doesn’t make eye contact with me. His face is pulled into annoyance, the muscle in his jaw rolling, and he hardly waits for me to reach for my seat belt before closing the door.
“So it’s the silent treatment, then?” I push when he lowers himself into the car.
“We’re fighting over a fucking glass of water, Jules,” he tells me. “I’m not doing that.”
“Don’t curse at me.”
“I—” he stops, dragging his hand down his face as he twists the key in the ignition. “Let’s just go.”
As we pull out of the parking lot, I roll down my window. My arm rests on the door and I drop my chin onto it, watching out of the window as the city passes us by.
I can hear it; my connection to him, hanging on by a thread.
I can hear its pulse slowing.
I can hear it struggling to breathe.
And I can’t stop it.
I don’t know why I pick fights with him like this. I don’t know why I get so impossibly angry with him. Especially when all he’s trying to do is cheer me up, and when all I want is to be closer to him again, because I love him and I really believe that somewhere deep inside, he still loves me.
I want to fix it, but I just keepbreakingit.
Walls close in on me as we pull into the garage, Tripp’s hands wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles have gone completely white. Fingers flex and release on repeat on his shaking hands, and he refuses to look at me.
Pushing open his door, he crosses to my side of the SUV to pull it open, silently offering a hand to help me out of my seat. It’s the same gesture he’s made every time that we’ve ridden anywhere together, only this time, it’s cold. Ice radiates off of his body as I take his hand, begging for my touch to warm him.
I pin him in my gaze, letting my thumb stroke the back of his hand as the muscle ticks against his jaw.
“Tripp…”
His hardened gaze snaps to me. A fire rages behind his eyes, and I can’t put it out.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you?” He demands.
As he releases my hand, it trails up to his cheek. He swipes it away from him, leaving in its wake an emptiness, echoed by a hollow ache that settles low in my chest.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
“Something happened to you at Aislin’s birthday party,” he tells me. “I don’t know what, because you won’t fucking talk to me about it, but you’relyingto me, Jules.”
“I’m not—” I’m cut off by a harsh roll of his eyes as he storms away from me, reaching for his helmet. “Where are you going?”
“For a ride,” he barks. His attention turns to me as he slides his helmet into place and takes hold of his motorcycle’s handlebars. “You don’t want me to curse at you, you don’t want me to not talk to you; the only other option is to start breaking shit, and I amnotgonna be that guy. If you want to tell me the truth and actually talk to me, call me and I will push this fucking engine to its limit to get back home to you.”
I open my mouth to speak, to offer him something –anything, but the words refuse to come. Even as he rolls down the driveway and climbs onto the seat of his motorcycle. As itsengine purrs to life and he carefully navigates past the house. As the engine roars loudly to let me know that he’s left our small neighborhood, they refuse.
And there it is.
Flatline.
