Opening her door, I pull her out and into my arms. I feel her let go, her body getting heavier, like she wants to fall to her feet and she knows I won’t let her.
“I’m sorry he’s a jerk,” I mutter, brushing my hand down her hair.
“I hate this,” she cries and pulls away from me. I almost don’t let her, but then I remember she might not be able to breathe if she’s anxious at all. “I feel stupid that I’m this upset over it.” She wipes her cheeks. Failing to meet my gaze still.
“He told you he loved you, Addie…it’s not stupid.”
“I just feel blindsided. I didn’t know he was having second thoughts.”
“Would you have changed something if you did?”
“Huh. I don’t know. I tried my best. I tried to push myself, but it just didn’t always work out and wasn’t always worth it.”
“Clearly he didn’t see the full picture like we all did.”
“What do you mean?” She looks at me, her eyes red and broken. I take half a step back, the cold wind picking up and blowing through my sweatshirt. I tense.
“Let’s get back in the truck first,” I suggest.
I pull back onto the road before I answer her question, trying to brace myself for the rest of the drive, and then the entire way home… It might get interesting.
“We all saw it—you were trying really hard. And anyone who couldn’t see that isn’t worth it,” I say. She wipes her eyes with the tips of her fingers and her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Don’t cry over an immature jerk, Addison,” I say.
* **
We get to the guy’s house ten minutes later. It’s almost 1 p.m. Addison’s been pretty quiet and I’m not pushing her to talk about anything if she isn’t in the mood to.
She stays in the truck while we load the chute onto the trailer.
When I get back in the driver’s seat, I notice she’d just gotten done crying again but is trying not to show it. I don’t say anything. I’m not sure if I should. Like I said, I’ve never seen her this upset before.
“You hungry? We can stop for lunch,” I say.
“At, like, a restaurant?” Her brows knit.
“Yeah, unless you don’t want to.”
“We don’t have to sit down somewhere. We can just eat in here,” she responds, as if it’s a burden to share a meal with her in public.
“I just thought…we’re out, might as well make it worth it? Cheer you up a little? You can pick the place,” I offer.
She looks out the window. “So many options,” she jokes, pointing to all the trees. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth before she picks up her phone. “There’s a Texas Roadhouse not far off from the way we came.”
“You sure it’s the way we came?” I ask, “Let me see. I don’t trust you after the rodeo incident,” I tease. She rolls her eyes and shows me the map.
After twenty minutes of silence between us again, I get an antsy, unsettling feeling. This drive home is going to be really long if this is how it goes. I know she can’t just ignore the feeling of being hurt. They were together two years. I get it, and I don’t want to force her to talk about it. But I’m alsoworried about her thought process towards it. I don’t want her to blame herself forhisactions. Because if I know her like I think I do, I know she’s already doing just that.
“What are you thinking about?” I try to ask gently. It’s a sorta stupid question and it might piss her off.
She slumps down in her seat more, adjusting her feet up onto my dash. “Just trying to figure out how I’m going to fulfill my dreams of getting married and having kids if I can’t even manage to keep a relationship. They kinda go hand in hand.”
“Oh, is that how that works?” I joke. But her glare says she doesn’t think I’m very funny. “I’m sorry,” I say immediately.
“I just don’t think I’m in the mood to talk,” she mutters, turning away and looking out the window.
“That’s fine. We can listen to music.” I reach for the dial. A Morgan Wallen song takes over the cab.
“Are you serious?” she says, her voice cracking. I look over at her, tears emerging from her eyes while she’s staring at the radio.
