Maddox: ???
Maddox: Dude, where r u?
Maddox: Call me.
I’ve been ignoring him, lost in my own selfish pit of despair, just like I’ve been ignoring the truth.
I lean my head back against the seat, the scratchy fabric of the sheriff’s sweatshirt a constant, irritating reminder of where I am. In the sheriff’s car. Wearing the sheriff’s clothes. Because I punched the sheriff. And I’m on my way to drop off his daughter at the airport after he let me sleep on his couch. The whole situation is so fucked up, it’s almost funny.
Almost.
Because as I sit here, the events of the last twenty-four hours replaying in my mind, a horrible, gut-wrenching realization dawns on me. I’ve been wrong about everything. So completely, spectacularly wrong.
I fucked things up. I was selfish and possessive and a complete and utter asshole. I saw Millie asmine. My best friend.The one person who was supposed to be there for me, the one who was supposed to understand me, the one who was supposed to want me.
I never stopped to think about what she wanted. I never stopped to consider that she was her own person, with her own desires, her own needs, her own capacity to love.
And now I can see it. I can see all the people who see her for who she really is. Not just an extension of me, not just a piece of our fucked-up little trio, but a vibrant, beautiful, complicated woman who is worthy of love. Who is loved.
Can I really blame Maddox for falling in love with her?
The thought is a bitter pill to swallow, but I force it down. He’s been there, right beside me, for years. He’s seen her laugh, he’s seen her cry, he’s seen her at her best and her worst. He’s loved her quietly, patiently, from a distance, respecting a boundary I didn’t even know I’d put up. While I was busy being jealous and possessive, he was being a friend. A true friend.
I really fucked up. I need to make it up to her. To both of them. I don’t know how yet, but I know I have to try.
The car door opens, and Knox slides back into the driver’s seat. He’s quiet, his movements stiff. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead as we pull away from the curb, leaving Clara and the small airport behind.
“Were you crying?” I ask, the question a blunt, teasing probe.
He turns to me, his eyes red-rimmed, the skin around them puffy. “Don’t be an asshole,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. He was clearly crying.
I nudge him with my elbow, a small, awkward gesture of solidarity. “It’s okay,” I say, the corners of my lips twitching up. “We’re even now.”
A real smile transforms his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw. “You’re kind of a douche,” he says, shaking his head.
“I know,” I admit, my own smile widening. “But you’re a douche who cries at airport goodbyes, so I think we’re on pretty equal footing.”
He laughs again and it fills the small space of the car. “Fair enough,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “God, I’m still hungry. I’m craving one of those sticky buns from Cora’s bakery. The ones with the cream cheese frosting.”
My stomach rumbles in response. “That sounds amazing.”
He glances over at me, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Can we make a quick stop at the garage first?” I ask, my tone hesitant. “I just want to check on the truck. See what the damage is. Last I checked, the tow company dropped it off there.”
He nods, his expression understanding. “Okay,” he says. “No problem.”
The garage smells of oil and gasoline, a familiar, comforting scent that takes me back to teenage years spent tinkering with old engines and dreaming of a life beyond Driftwood. It’s a cluttered space, filled with the sounds of air wrenches and the low rumble of a radio playing classic rock.
It’s a world of grease and metal, a place where problems are tangible, fixable. It’s so different from the emotional minefield I’ve been navigating for the last twenty-four hours.
Elias, the owner, is a bear of a man with a gray beard and hands the size of hams. He’s hunched over the engine of a sleek, new-looking car, his brow furrowed in concentration. As we walk in, he straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better days.
And then I see them. Shepard and Sadie, standing by the office door. Sadie is pacing. Shepard is leaning against thedoorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, a small, indulgent smile playing on his lips.
“What’s going on here?” Knox asks, his gaze fixed on the new car.
“Sadie accidentally scratched the paint,” Shepard explains, his tone fond. “And Gabe and I won’t let her just paint a mural over it to cover it up.”
