Page 121 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“No.” I slap his hand. “Let go.”
But he doesn’t. He pulls.
I pull back.
The paper tears loudly and violently, ripping straight down the middle.
We freeze.
His breathing’s shallow. Mine’s worse.
Two halves flutter in our hands.
Slowly, he looks at me, but I’m past my breaking point. I feel it bubbling inside me. It’s too much. This whole ride has been too much.
“Way to go.” My eyes run along the torn, jagged edge.
“Likewise.” His so-Hart comeback digs so deep inside me, I know we need a timeout from each other.
Without another word, I throw open the door and step out into the heat. My boots hit the uneven ground.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me. “You can’t just walk away in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m taking a break from your testosterone-fueled detour.” I slam the door, and I stalk away.
The late afternoon sun hits me square in the back, heavy and relentless. I feel the crumpled map in my hand, my fingers itching to squeeze into a fist. But I force myself to loosen my grip, even though all I want to do is throw it on the ground and stomp until nothing is left.
And I want to scream while I do it.
I turn my face to the sun, letting it warm me to feel something other than this rage building up inside.
He follows me out a second later, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Dick.
“I come in peace.” His voice is low.
I don’t look at him.
“I’m also extending a truce.” He holds out his half of the torn paper.
My eyes flicker to it, then to him. “Is this your idea of an apology?”
He says nothing, dammit, he’s good at saying nothing.
“Of course not. Because you don’t apologize. Hart Wilde would never admit to being wrong or acknowledging that your actions hurt people.”
“I’m giving you the damn map.” He barks the words out impatiently, like he’s had enough.
That’s rich.
He swallows hard, his jaw tightening. His eyes never leave mine.
“Fine.”
What choice do I have?
I try to smooth the two pieces out against the old fence posts, but the gusts of wind keep yanking it free.
