Page 16 of Open Secrets
I gripped the wheel, hesitant. “I… uh. I sold the Ford.”
The words felt heavier than they should. That car had been a piece of junk, sure—smoked every time I turned the key, stranded us more than once. But it was ours. The place where we learned its quirks, laughed at its tantrums. A thing stitched into our memories whether we wanted it or not.
“The engine caught fire,” I added when she didn’t look at me. “There was no fixing it.”
“I get it,” she murmured, her voice so small it barely filled the space between us. “It was old.”
Silence stretched, heavy. I couldn’t stand it.
“I took the bus,” I said, filling the space with words that sounded thinner than I wanted them to. “I thought about going to your dorm, but I had this feeling. And then I saw your car when I was about a block out—that’s why it took me so long to get to you.” I glanced at her, then back at the road. “I… I tried to call you, but your phone—”
Her lips pressed together, her eyes still on the glass. “I threw it.”
I blinked. “Threw it?”
“At the wall,” she said flatly. “When the test showed two lines.”
The words sliced clean, no hesitation, and I felt them settle deep in my chest.
I stayed quiet after that, the weight of her words filling the car heavier than the morning traffic outside. The drive back to campus blurred.
By the time I pulled into the lot, the place was filled students already coming back from class. I stayed still for a second, staring through the windshield like maybe if I didn’t move, time would stop too.
I reached for the handle, but Maria’s hand caught my forearm. Her fingers were light, trembling.
“It’s girls only,” she said softly.
“Oh.” The word stuck. “I should get going anyway.”
She nodded, blinking fast like her eyes were burning. “Thank you… for being there for me. Most guys would’ve… anyway. Thanks.”
She swallowed hard, then rushed on before I could answer. “I know you’re used to being with… girls now. But I just—what happened at Christmas meant something to me.”
My throat tightened.
“And I don’t think I can do the whole casual sex thing. Not with you.”
I found my voice, rough and low. “It means something to me too. I’m just… not ready for anything serious. Not yet.”
She nodded like she already knew. “So, I guess this is goodbye.”
Her hand slipped from my arm, and she reached for the door handle. Something in me panicked at the finality of it, so before she could leave, I said, “Keys.”
She blinked, confused, but held out her hand. I dropped the set into her palm.
She stared at them, realizing instantly they weren’t hers. The Ford’s keys. What was left of them, anyway. The cheap, worn fob was scratched, but the thing that mattered was still there—the keychain. A little silver charm we picked up senior year, a dumb trinket from a roadside stand outside Waco. She’d hung it on the rearview mirror, said it made the car ours.
“It’s still with me,” I said, watching her fingers close around it. “Even if the car’s gone.”
Her eyes glistened, lips parting like she wanted to speak, but nothing came.
For a second, the silence between us felt like it could crack wide open and swallow me whole.
Maria closed her palm around the keys, holding tight like she was trapping the memories inside. Her shoulders lifted with a shaky breath, and then, before I could brace myself, she leaned across the console.
Her lips brushed mine—soft, fleeting, not the wild kind of kiss we’d shared before but something gentler, heavier. A promise and a farewell wrapped in one breath.
When she pulled back, her eyes lingered on me, searching, memorizing.
