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“I said I’d drive you home,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the steering wheel even further, ignoring the protesting plastic and leather. “I’ll get you home.”
Silence.
That is unusual.
And it draws my focus, tears my gaze from the road.
Her hands are in her lap, fingers weaved together so tightly that her knuckles are standing out sharply in relief.
But she doesn’t comment on my statements, on me taking her phone.
Instead, her shoulders are hitched up, her jaw is tight, and her stare is firmly pointed out the windshield.
“Brit.”
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge me.
I want her to.
I want to demand she does so.
Because I’m a fucking asshole.
“I’ll get you home,” I say again, and it’s less to her and more to myself, more to focus my dumbass brain. To focus on the task at hand.
And on the road.
Not on my ex-wife. Not on the fact that she was on a date that almost ended badly.
Because of decisions I made.
Because—
“I know,” she says, gaze still on the windshield.
I don’t like her tone, hate the dead sound in those two words. And I don’t like that I’m part of what has caused that—extinguishing the bright, making her go quiet and?—
A horn bleeps behind me, jerks my eyes away from her profile.
I glance up, see the light’s green.
Fuck.
I hit the gas, pull forward, driving along the winding highway until I’m navigating onto the bigger one, grinding my teeth through the usual stop and go that comes with more cars on the road. Then I’m taking the off-ramp and steering us through the familiar quiet, tree-linedneighborhood that leads to my house?—
No.
To Brit’s house.
Where I park in the driveway instead of the garage.
And ignore the fact that it feels wrong.
“Thanks,” she says, popping the door the moment I’ve drawn to a halt, the seat belt retracting back in a rush, the metal fastener clanging against the door with a loud thwap. “Sorry,” she whispers, but she doesn’t stop her hurried movements, doesn’t temper her obvious urge to get the hell out of the car.
“Brit—”
Her door slams.
