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He doesn’t look at me. He just keeps staring straight ahead.
“Don’t you think this has gone far enough, Cam?”
“What?” I breathe.
“Don’t you think we should take some time?” He’s still not looking at me. “Maybe this whole thing is a really bad idea.”
What? No, no, no, no. I can’t process what he’s saying.
“You’re—” I start, but the words won’t come.
He flinches. “I just think—”
“You’re breaking up with me? After everything?” My voice is rising now. Panic and anger mix together in my chest. “After you, after you fucking catfished me and manipulated me and made me fall for you, now you’re saying it’s a bad idea?”
“Cam—”
“What does that even mean?” I’m yelling now. I can hear myself yelling, but I can’t stop. “Take some time? What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” he says, and his voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear it. “I don’t know, okay? I just, I can’t—”
He stops. He takes a shaky breath.
“My father is right,” he says finally. “This is… I’m ruining your life. I’m ruining everything I touch.”
Tears stream down my face before I can stop them. I don’t bother wiping them away.
“Oh, Cam.” His voice breaks. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
He reaches for me, but I pull away. I shove myself back against the passenger door, as far from him as I can get in the confined space.
“Yes,” I say, and my voice is cold now. “It is all your fault.”
He flinches like I’ve hit him.
Good. I want him to hurt. I want him to feel even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now.
He stares at me, his dark eyes wet, his lashes clumped together in little spikes. His face is pale, except his lips, which are still full and pink. Then he turns away. He puts both hands on the wheel and takes a deep breath.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
He starts the car.
And we drive.
The highway stretches out endlessly in front of us. Dark asphalt and white lines.
Seven hours. That’s how long it takes to get from Charleston to our hotel in Fredericksburg. Seven hours of highway and rest stops and the slow, agonizing crawl of time.
We don’t talk.
Not really.
Just the occasional practical question, delivered in flat, emotionless tones.
“Do you want me to drive?”
“No.”
