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The song builds, and so does the pressure behind my ribs. A tear slips free anyway.
Jude glances at me when we stop at a red light, and I know he sees it, but he doesn't change the song or ask if I'm okay. He doesn't tell me not to cry.
The light turns green, and he simply keeps driving.
I wipe the tear away and look back out the window.
Most people see pain and immediately start trying to make it stop. They throw words at it, advice, platitudes, anything to make themselves feel like they're helping.
Jude just lets it exist.
Like maybe pain doesn't scare him.
I don't know why, but that makes it a little easier to breathe.
By the time we pull into a parking lot, the sun has almost disappeared.
I look through the windshield at the large building in front of us.
A bowling alley takes up one side, bright neon lights glowing through the windows. I can hear the distant crash of pins even from inside the truck, followed by cheers and laughter. There's a small bar attached to the other side, and somewhere between the two, glowing in angry red letters, are the words:
RAGE ROOM. I slowly turn my head toward Jude as he turns off the engine.
“You brought me to a rage room?”
He gets out.
Of course he does.
“Jude!” I open my door just as he reaches it.
He gives me a look.
“I can open a door,” I grumble.
“I know.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
He shrugs.
Infuriating man.
I stare at the sign again. People actually pay money to destroy things?
Apparently humanity has found a way to monetize losing your shit.
“You need this.”
I look at him. That's all he says before holding out his hand.
My eyes move from his hand to the building.
“I've never done this before.”
“I figured.”
I hesitate another second before putting my hand in his and letting him help me down.
