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Rachel grabs her own wrist and squeezes hard, intent on leaving a mark.

“What are you doing?”

I reach for her, and she pulls me toward her, laughing.

“You do care. I just wanted to be sure.”

I take a step back. “What’s wrong with you?”

When Emma notices I’ve stopped, she cranks down her window.

“You okay?”

“No. My car won’t start.”

“I’ll give you a ride. Then I’ll take a look at it later.” I move my computer bag from the passenger seat and dump my gym bag into the back of the cab. But she still hasn’t gotten out of her car. Wow. She’s really pissed at me.

Rachel runs her hands under my shirt.

“You and I are more alike than you realize. We’ve both lost so much.”

I give her a questioning look.

“I may not ask you questions, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t look you up. What would Emma think if she knew what really happened?”

“Please, just let me drive you to school,” I persist. This girl looks like she’d prefer to hitchhike than get into my truck.

“Fine.” She shoves out of her car and slams her door with emphasis.

I now know more than ever that Emma’s not like Rachel, but moments like this, I understand what Sadie was talking about when she tried to explain genetic trauma and cyclical behavior. What behaviors we learn and what we could be inherently predisposed to become.

I was way too stubborn, and so set on not becoming my father, I couldn’t hear her. But I’m starting to get it now. I’m sure as hell not telling Emma this, though. No matter how many silent tantrums she throws and doors she slams.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I know what’s been speculated in the papers and town gossip. But no one knows the truth.

“Maybe not. But there’s enough doubt to cast suspicion.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” I bite back. “Derek’s mother isn’t convinced it was an accident. Something about… faulty brakes?”

Rachel drapes her arms over my shoulders and tilts her head back and laughs. “Touché.”

At least Emma’s honest with me… for the most part. And hasn’t coerced me into doing something I don’t want to do.

I let her sit in her sulking silence for most of the ride—allowing the radio to fill the truck with the classic rock station I prefer.

Eventually I turn the radio down. “Can we talk about it?”

“No. I definitely do not want to talk about it.” She practically bites my head off.

“Do you want to be in our lives? In Emma’s life?”

I remain silent.

She pulls on the button of my pants, popping it open.

Ten seconds later, Emma yells, “Why are you doing this to her, Jonathan? I don’t understand!”

“I… I know.” She’s still determined to protect Rachel. But I need her to understand why I did it. “I couldn’t end it. I knew it would make things worse.”