Page 54 of Fighting Spirit

“Ruth, just wait a second-”

“I shouldn’t have-”

“Hey, hey.” He grabs my wrists, his touch gentle. “Just stop a minute, okay?”

I don’t say anything as I stare down at my lap. Embarrassment wells up thick in my throat and I have to fight down the sting of tears. How did I misread things that badly?

“I’m so sorry,” I choke out, my voice hoarse.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” I can barely speak past the tears that threaten to fall. I refuse to let myself cry. I’m not allowed to be upset here. I’m the one who fucked up, who made unwanted advances.

“Ruth, it’s not that I’m not-that you’re not-” He runs his hand roughly over his brow, like he’s hoping to rub out the memory. “You’re my friend, and you’re beautiful. I just don’t-”

“It’s okay.” I give him a small smile.

He nods, short and sharp. “You’re my friend.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t.” My voice is hoarse. The last thing I want in any of this is to ruin what we’ve got. I can just chalk it up to a moment of madness. I got swept away by the view, the night breeze, how nice he looks sitting on the hood of his car like a late nineties rom-com heartthrob.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

“Can you take me home, please?” I whisper, the words almost getting lost in the wind.

“We don’t have to-”

“Please.”

He sighs, long and almost like a groan. “Sure.”

I jog my knee up and down in the silence of the car as Rowan drives toward my apartment. My body itches to break the quiet, not sure what he’s thinking and desperately uncomfortable with that, but I can’t think of a single reasonable thing to say.

“Look, it’s not you-” he starts.

“I swear to god, Rowan,” I cut in. “If you say, ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ right now, I’m gonna run us off the road.”

“That seems a little drastic,” he grumbles.

“Not from where I’m sitting.”

I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to look Rowan in the eye again. This is the kind of humiliation that’s going to keep me awake ten years from now.

I wish he would stop talking. If he would stop being so damn nice about this, then maybe I could sink through the floor of the truck in peace and become one with the road.

“I don’t really know what to say,” he mumbles.

“You could say nothing?”

“You want to sit in silence?”

“You love silence!” I snap back. “It goes with your whole aesthetic.”

“I have an aesthetic?” He chuckles, incredulous.

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