Page 85 of Dirty Mechanic
He doesn’t look at me. Not once.
I press my hand to my stomach, trying to steady my breathing, trying to hold myself together. My heart’s pounding so loudly, I swear, it echoes in the cab. I keep stealing glances at him, hoping for something—softness, anger, anything—but he’s a wall.
And I am crumbling beside him.
The rain intensifies, turning the world outside to blur and shadow. Thunder cracks somewhere distant. The silence between us deepens, filling the truck like smoke. Choking. Clinging.
I think about the ring on my finger. The vows whispered under fairy lights. The way his voice shook when he said I was his.
I think about Mike. The forged papers. Every lie I clung to about why I couldn’t tell Derek the truth.
And I think—I’ve lost him.
He pulls into the driveway. The porch light flickers. The engine cuts.
He gets out without a word.
I follow.
The wind bites at my skin as I close the truck door behind me, the storm curling around the farmhouse like a warning. Each step across the gravel feels like a plea.
The screen door creaks open in his hand. He walks inside, tracking rain with his boots, shedding wet tension in every stride.
"Derek...please," I say softly.
No response.
The living room is quiet, only the hum of the fridge and the soft pelt of rain on the roof to keep me company. He disappears down the hallway, his shoulders a wall of fury and restraint.
The dogs are nowhere in sight. Probably curled up in our bed, unaware the world is splintering again. I hear the bathroom door shut. Then the water.
I stand in the center of the room, unsure what to do with my hands, my breath, my guilt.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t accuse. But silence can leave scars deeper than any scream.
I drift to the couch like a ghost, blanket clutched to my chest like armor. The cushions still smell like us—cider and cinnamon, and something warm that makes my chest ache.
I think of the RV. The first time. The way his hands trembled on my skin like I was something precious. The way we burned and bloomed in the same breath.
Thunder rolls in the distance, low and mean.
I curl into the corner of the couch, arms tight around my knees. The blanket is soft, but it doesn't stop the chill. The fridge hums. The rain drums steadily. I count the beats like penance.
I told myself I was protecting him. But maybe, I was protecting myself.
Because the truth? It's ugly. It’s messy. It’s wrapped in shame and fear and a forged piece of paper that may have destroyed everything we’ve built.
And now, I’m here. Alone. Watching the rain slide down the windowpane like it’s weeping for me.
The water stops.
So does my heart.
Footsteps.
He’s coming back.
And I don’t know if it’s to stay, or to say goodbye.
