“You didn’t have to leave,” I tell him over my shoulder.
He ignores it. “Do you want to ride with me? We can get your car tomorrow.”
“I’m okay to drive. I’ve had three sips of beer all night. Nerves and all.”
He nods once. “I’ll follow you home.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I settle on, “Okay,” and his shoulders drop, just slightly.
I walk to my truck and don’t look back, but I feel him watching me the whole way. My hands shake as I unlock the door. I climb in, start the engine, and crank up the heat. My breath fogs the cab as his headlights flare to life behind me.
The city streets are quiet for a Sunday night. I follow my GPS on autopilot—left, right, left again, then straight until the highway entrance.
His words spin through my head.
Do you think we could talk?
What does “talk” mean? An apology? An explanation? Another rejection dressed up nicely this time?
My stomach turns. I don’t know if I can handle another.
Because I want him. Jesus, I do. I don’t know if it’s a mistake or finally doing something right. Either way, it doesn’t change a thing.
Whatever happens nextisgoing to change us, and I’m committed to seeing it through.
I need an answer, even if it isn’t the one I’m hoping for. If we’re talking, I’m not letting him get away with being vague again. He’s going to tell me what’s going on in that beautiful, neurotic, stubborn head of his.
I merge onto the highway, and the city lights fall away. The road opens up, emptier and darker out of the city. Just my truck, his headlights in my rearview, and the occasional car blowing past.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
We’ll be home in twenty minutes, maybe less at this time of night. The questions get louder the closer I get to home, amplified by the silence.
I reach down to flip on the radio?—
A sharp crack of rubber explodes. My stomach drops, and my hand flies back to the wheel.
There’s an ugly screech of metal on pavement that makes pinpricks crawl across my skin.
Then my truck lurches violently to the right.
“Shit!”
I grip the wheel with both hands, trying to correct, but the truck’s already pulling hard. The road tilts, or maybe I do.
I pump the brakes. Not too hard, don’t overcorrect. But the momentum carries me toward the shoulder. The guardrail rushes up on my right.
Gravel pings against metal. The wheel jerks in my hands as I wrench it to the left. My tires scream.
“No, no, no.”
Everything is noise. Then, a rush of blood fills my ears, loud and hollow, like the world goes underwater.
Sound snaps back with the sickening crunch of my truck scraping against the metal guardrail.
And then it all stops.
I suck in air, hand pressed to my chest, heart going wild.
