I put my hand at her lower back, firm, guiding. And she leans into it like she needs something solid too.
We reach my car and I open her door first. She slides in, posture still composed, but her hands shake when she reaches for the seatbelt.
I get in the driver’s seat, shut the door, and for a second the world goes quiet.
Just the hum of the engine and our breathing.
Sarah stares straight ahead.
I grip the wheel.
My fingers are tight.
Then Sarah speaks, voice low. “Are you angry?”
I swallow. ‘Angry doesn’t even touch it.’
But I don’t say that. I turn my head just enough to look at her. “I don’t know what I am,” I admit.
Sarah’s throat works. She nods once, like she understands perfectly.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” she says.
“You don’t have to be,” I tell her.
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are glossy now, the control slipping. “Where are we going?” she asks.
The answer comes instantly.
“Your house,” I say. Not my place.
Sarah’s expression shifts like the word hits her somewhere deep.
She nods, small. “Okay.”
The drive is quiet but not awkward, just heavy.
It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling because anything we say will be wrong or too sharp.
Sarah’s hand rests in her lap, fingers twisting her ring once, then stopping. She stares out the window like she’s trying to get her body to accept reality.
I keep my eyes on the road, but my mind keeps snapping back to Sierra’s face. To her silence. And the way she couldn’t answer me.
To the way it felt like the ground shifted under my feet.
When we pull into Sarah’s driveway, the house is dark except for a small lamp in the front window.
She doesn’t move right away.
Neither do I.
Then she exhales, shaky. “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she says.
The honesty in that hits me harder than anything else she could’ve said.
“You won’t be,” I answer.
We get out of the car. Inside, the warmth wraps around us, but neither of us relaxes.
