She turns to go back inside.
“Wait,” I say.
I reach out and catch her arm. I don’t grab her hard. I just stop her.
“What?” she asks, not turning around.
“Don’t go back in there,” I say. “Can we just... talk? For a minute?”
She turns to face me. She pulls her arm out of my grip.
“Talk about what, Knox?” she asks. “About the circuit? About the money? About how you’re going to ride bulls in Louisiana while we’re back here trying to keep the roof from caving in?”
“We can talk about us,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “Us? There’s no ‘us,’ Knox. There’s a lawyer and three squatters who can’t seem to agree on anything. That’s not an ‘us.’”
“That’s not what it feels like,” I say. “Not anymore.”
She laughs again, but this time it sounds broken. “I don’t see what we have to talk about. You have your ticket out. Take it.”
She turns and walks toward her rental truck.
I watch her go. I watch her stomp through the mud, anger radiating off her in waves.
I shove my hands into my pockets.
I want to go after her. I want to grab her and shake her and tell her that the money doesn’t matter. That the circuit doesn’t matter. That I’d rather stay here and be broke with her than be rich and alone in Louisiana.
But the image of her face when she said “you don’t belong here” stops me.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I don’t belong here. Maybe I’m just holding on because I’m scared of the unknown. Because the thought of going back on the road alone, without them, is terrifying.
I stand in the dark, listening to the music from inside. I listen to the laughter.
I am going to miss this.
And I haven’t even left yet.
I haven’t left yet.
I’m still here.
She’s still here.
I don’t let her get far. The gravel crunches under my boots as I cut across the parking lot, closing the distance between us. She’s fuming. I can see it in the stiff set of her shoulders, the way she yanks the door of her rental truck open and practically dives into the back seat.
She’s rummaging through a box on the floorboard, throwing things aside with jerky movements.
“Saramaria,” I say, reaching the tailgate.
“Go away, Knox,” she snaps, not turning around. She’s digging through a pile of papers, her knuckles white. “I’m not in the mood for a pep talk. I’m not in the mood for your logic. Just leave me alone.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” I say.
I walk around the open door. I lean in, crowding her space. The inside of the truck smells like her—that vanilla and honey scent that drives me crazy—and the metallic tang of the rain on the upholstery.
