“Marine.”
“Marine cowboy.”
He chuckles once. The most laughter I’ve gotten out of him. It feels bittersweet as he scans through the satellite radio channels, country station after country station, settling on George Strait’s lonely lines.
“So, I volunteered for a good cause and didn’t even know it?” I tease, an unwelcome rawness tinging my voice.
He nods, quirking his mouth but still not speaking.
Though soft lyrics texture the silence, I still need to fill it, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “In high school, I volunteered at an animal shelter. Worked with dogs and cats, nothing as big as a horse. But once an iguana came in, needing to be adopted. Another time, an Angora bunny and a Bantam rooster.”
He chuckles, face softening slightly.
“You look good when you smile.” I say too quickly, then fight the urge to slap my hand over my mouth. I add, “You should do it more.”
“Same for you,” he says. The words drop heavy between us, like the air in the truck cab.
My eyes follow the snowy blur of white, admiring the distant mountains that loom. Not ready for the first sign of something I recognize. The first sign that tells me I’ll never see this man again.
Shouldn’t matter. But the tug behind my ribs says otherwise.
“Tell me more about you in high school,” he prompts. I could almost believe he really cares, the way he focuses on me.
I shrug. “Nothing to write home about. A mediocre student. Not college material or anything. More like ‘you’d make a great secretary’ material.”
“That what you are?”
“Actually, I mostly work remote. Voice work. Audiobooks, commercial narration. As long as I’ve got my mic and Wi-Fi, I’m good.”
He nods once. “Makes sense. You’ve got a voice people would listen to.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, cheeks glowing.
After a heavy pause, I explain, “I met Trevor in high school. He took me to prom…” My voice cracks at the end. The first night ruined by too much drinking.
Austin clears his throat, side-eyeing me. “You okay? Need a change of subject?”
“No,” my chin quivers. I need him to understand. “Just never thought of things the way I’m seeing them now.” I swipe at the hot streams flooding my cheeks, shame climbing me like a thorny vine.
“How do you mean?” he drawls so quiet, I have to lean closer to make out the words. He turns down the radio a tick, as if sayingI’m ready to listen, if you want to talk.
“I just wonder sometimes how differently my life might’ve been if I hadn’t met him.” Guilt floods me. “See how awful I am?”
“Not awful,” Austin says firmly. “Asking honest questions.”
“I mean,” I say, hanging my head. “I’ve convinced myself for years that everything’s okay. That I can put up with the occasional drama … because he’s always been there. In every memory I have, teenager and beyond. But a moment ago, when I thought about prom, I realized something.” I breathe through my mouth fighting a sob.
Trevor would give me a reprieve. He’d go off on how much he hates crying women. But Austin waits, letting the silence build until it’s deafening.
“That every memory I have with him—almost every single one—is filled with pain. Criticisms, insults. Some verbal, some emotional, some worse.” My fingers dance over my wrist again. “Even something as simple as a date ended with me bracing for impact.”
Austin doesn’t try to fix anything or make me feel better. He doesn’t struggle to answer my question or say something wise. And he doesn’t reach out to touch me—hold my hand—though, God, I wish he would.
Instead, he waits. Quiet. Steady. There.
The windshield wipers thud as snow flurries greet us at the bottom of the hill. Familiar signs emerge, and my throat tightens. Kathy Mattea sings of loss and pain and a lifetime of regret.
Maybe that’s me. My future.
