The silence is immediate and unlike her. I managed to dim the light of the brightest person I've ever met.
I stare out the window as the scenery rolls past, trying to think of something to say to cut through the tension in this car.
Eva turns on the radio. Some pop station plays a song about heartbreak and moving on. She changes it immediately, and I hear the croon of Jackson Bedd’s voice.
“You know that’s Ethan’s brother.” I glance over at her, hoping this offering will be a welcome piece of trivia. She purses her lips, and I watch her process the information.
“Well, that’s pretty freaking cool. I guess I should use his songs when I make videos for Alex and the dairy.”
I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t really do social media, but I know I should say something. Apologize, maybe. Explain. Try to salvage whatever’s left of… what? Our friendship? Our almost-something? The easy warmth that existed before I ruined it?
But every time I open my mouth, the words stick. I’ve never been good at talking about feelings, at admitting I was wrong, at being vulnerable in any way that matters.
“So,” Eva says suddenly, making me jump. “How’s work?”
It’s such a normal question. Such a mundane, everyday, small-talk question. The kind of thing you ask someone you barely know at a party. We were more than that. And now we’re less.
“Fine,” I say. “The launch went okay. Minimal bugs.”
“Good.” Silence again. “What do you do, exactly? I get that you work for the phone company, but I don’t understand it.”
“My… friend, Clayton, got startup money through a company called Trede. They’re based in Climax, and they wanted better internet.”
“So it was selfish?” She sticks her tongue out adorably as she turns onto the highway, which is more of a byway.
“Sort of Meow Mobile specializes in rural service. It’s for everyone. Ethan and Diego and the whole dang town can use FaceTime, and Gran can put her sheep on YouTube.”
Eva grins. “And people can call 911 if they break a leg?”
I roll my eyes. “It would still take a long time to dispatch an ambulance.”
We’re halfway to Climax, and I’m already exhausted. Every word feels like navigating a minefield. Every silence feels like an accusation. But sometimes Eva slips into her easy banter with me, and that feels so good it’s worth the discomfort in between.
I watch her profile as she drives. The set of her jaw. The way her hands grip the steering wheel just a little too tight. The tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there when she used to drive me places, when she’d chatter about her sisters and I’d pretend to be annoyed while secretly loving every word.
I miss her.
The thought hits me like a physical blow. I miss her. Not in the abstract way I’ve been missing her all week, watching from windows and feeling sorry for myself. I miss her specifically, viscerally, right now, sitting eighteen inches away from her in this car.
I miss the way she’d laugh at my grumpy comments. Miss the way she’d push back when I was being difficult. Miss the warmth of her shoulder bumping mine on the golf cart, the smell of her shampoo, the way she looked at me like I was worth looking at. She’s right there, close enough to touch, and she’s never been farther away.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking at me.
I jerk my gaze to the window. “Sorry.”
“We’re almost there.” Her voice is neutral again. “Should I wait, or do you want me to come back?”
“I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
“There’s Wi-Fi and a cafeteria. I can work from there. Come find me when you’re done.”
She’s giving me an out—a way to have space, to not force her to sit in a waiting room with me.
“Okay,” I say, taking the offer. “Thanks.”
“That’s what neighbors are for.”
The word lands exactly where she means it to.
