Page 65 of The Wrong Drive-
The sound of someone clearing their throat catches my attention, and I whip my head to the left, meeting a pair of glassy, gray-blue eyes beneath a black cowboy hat.
“Sorry,” I mutter, realize I’m blocking his entrance into the driver’s side of his truck. “I… Um… Yeah.” The emotions that I was battling the entire time rise to the surface, and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, as I back out of his way.
He glances to his truck, then back to me. “Can’t find your car?” His voice is calm, but also commanding, making his entire presence intimidating.
I shake my head. “More like someone… I guess.”
The man just stands there, staring at me, his hand on the door handle of the truck. “You know, you don’t seem very sure right now. Should I call someone for you?”
I let out a dry laugh, suddenly feeling really stupid. “No, no reason to call anyone. I’m fine.” I force a smile, meeting the guy’s blue eyes again. When I do this time, I see them slightly soften as he peers down at me.
“Just hang in there,” he pops the door open. “Things will get better. Probably.”
I furrow my brow as he climbs in and starts the engine.What the fuck is he talking about?I can barely process the eerie feeling in my chest, as the truck pulls forward. I watch it as it makes a hard left, and then flashes its brights at another vehicle.
And thenthattruck pulls out, too.
Squinting, I try to see through the black tinted windshield. But I can’t.
I run my hands over my face, letting out a muffled sob.I hate you, Turner. I hate you for doing this to me.I reach into my pocket, and pull out my keys, my grief morphing to anger as I make my way back to my own truck.
I can’t do this anymore.Ineedmy closure.
And I’m getting it.Today.
***
The cabin looks different in August, and as I pull up to the gate, I immediately spot the lock. My hands tremble as I put my truck in park, and then kill the engine.
I should turn around and leave.
But as I close my eyes, he’s still all I see, standing at this goddamn gate and telling me I have to go—that he can’t do it.
Maybe you never really loved me, Turner. Maybe thisisjust a trauma bond like my therapist says.I fling the truck door open, and then slide out, thankful for the breeze. I stomp my way up to the lock on the gate, reaching out and flipping it around.
Ugh. It really is locked.
My heart drops in my chest as I step back, trying to come up with some other method to get in. If only I had a fucking phone number for him. Because I know the moment I cross this fence, and start up the hill, I could end up buried with the others.
Good riddance. Let him.
With that, I walk around the gate and scale the fence. I’m not agile, but I still manage, dropping over on the other side. The trees are still as thick as ever, and I choose to walk the driveway.
I’m not trying to be sneaky.
See me, Turner. Shoot me. Whatever.
At least then, maybe I’ll feel something. I move quickly, the driveway a mix of gravel and dirt rather than snow-covered like I remember. The cabin comes into view a few minutes later, and my breath catches in my throat.
Shit.I bat the tear away that rolls down my cheek and pause a few feet from the porch. There’s no dog barking. There’s no signs of life at all.
“Where are you?” I call out, my voice coming out weak and pathetic. I walk up to the front door and beat my fist against it until it’s too painful to continue. “Turner!” I say his name for the first time in months. “Turner!”
I jiggle the knob, but it’s locked.
My heart hammers in my chest. I havesomuch I need to tell him—about the investigation into Adam, about how it turned into Aaron, too, and how it’s all blown over… And I’m still paranoid and stressed every day. I haveno oneto lean on except myself.
“Because you quit on me,” I mutter. “You quit!” I slam my fist into the door one last time, but the thud is hardly satisfying.
