Shit.
I think I might’ve gone too far with the passive-aggressive replies, because it’s obvious now: he wants to set the record straight. Literally.
“We are talking,” I say, flat, my heart pounding somewhere in my throat.
“I want to talk about last year,” Thomas says. “What happened at Jason’s birthday. AtDrip.”
My body goes still, panic crawling up my spine and settling in my throat.
I thought I wanted this—to finally clear the air. But now that he’s saying it out loud, I know I don’t. Because I already know exactly how this ends.
He’s going to say he got drunk, said some things he didn’t mean, and I read too much into it. That I made it weird. That I messed everything up.
And I don’t want to hear it. I really, really don’t.
“Yeah, let’s not,” I mumble quickly, eyes locked on the windshield. “Whatever happened—happened. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Carter,” Thomas says again, and there’s a tight edge to it—frustration, maybe, or something closer to hurt. “Please don’t do that.”
Jesus Christ.
“Do what?” I ask, aiming for casual, but my voice cracks.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” Thomas says.
And just like that, my eyes start to sting.
Of course he’s sorry.
He’s sorry he got drunk and handsy, said a bunch of things he didn’t actually mean—and I, hopeless, desperate idiot that I am, took it the wrong way. Thought my years-long crush, which he clearly knew about, meant something more. Thought maybe it finally mattered.
“Don’t be, okay?” I say, angry now. “It doesn’t matter. Just—let it go.”
He doesn’t say anything. But I can feel him watching me—confused, maybe a little stunned, probably wondering why I’m reacting like this.
And I hate that I’m crying in front of him. Hate that the tears are actually falling, running down my face, making it obvious I still give a shit.
Because I don’t.
Jesus, I don’t.
“Carter,” he says again.
And then his hand is on my shoulder, rubbing gently, like he’s trying to calm me down—and now my face is wet and blurry and I’m wiping at it, trying to get it together—
The car lurches, the steering wheel kicking under my hands.
Shit. What the hell is going on?
Thomas pulls his hand away from my shoulder, like he thinks he somehow caused it.
A low grinding sound starts up—metallic and wrong—and both of us instinctively look toward the side of the road. There’s no real shoulder, just a snow-covered curb and a row of half-buried trees, but I ease the car over anyway and bring us to a stop.
That’s when the dashboard lights up all at once—check engine, battery, oil pressure, ABS, and at least three warning symbols I don’t even recognize, all blurring together in front of my eyes.
“Uh, Carter—” Thomas starts.
“I see it,” I snap, panic already rising in my throat.
