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He doesn't respond.
Awkward.
"Smashing Trout is playing at the Civic Center in two weeks," I clear my throat. "I got us tickets."
"Cool," Wilder shrugs.
Cool? That's all I'm going to get out of him? He hates—no, loathes—Smashing Trout. And he's suddenly just cool with me buying tickets for us? Something is seriously wrong with him.
I inhale sharply and turn to face him. He's gripping the steering wheel with both hands, and his jaw looks tense. Too tense for someone who got laid last night.
Wait, did he not sleep with Hendrix? I don't think he did. He's all wound up, like a swing that's been twisted until its chains can't budge anymore. All he needs is to let go, and he'll be spinning out of control.
Me. I'd like to be the one causing the spinning.
"What's going on?" I ask.
He briefly glances at me before his gaze returns to the road. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I lick my lips, "you kissed me, you didn't want to talk about it, you made it clear I would always be Cash's, and then you've ignored me for the past six days. So, I digress. What is going on, Wilder?"
"I don't want to—"
"Can I just say something?" I interrupt.
"Sure," Wilder exhales.
"I am my own," I swallow hard. "I don't belong to anyone. I'm not Cash's. When we were together, there was a room inside my heart where he stayed for a while, but my heart lives with me. I'm the one who lets people come and go from it. I'm the one who gave Cash permission to occupy a piece of it. It's mine. I don't belong to anyone but myself. I'm not Cash's, and I'm not yours. I am my own."
"I'm aware," Wilder sighs. "That's not what I meant when I said that."
"Then, what did you mean?"
"He saw you first, Blondie," Wilder states. "He saw you a split second before I did."
"I... I don't understand," I say. "He saw me first so that makes me his. What does that even mean?"
"It means the moment he saw you," there's a long pause before he continues, "our friendship would be over if I ever wanted you, too."
Did he just admit—ambivalently—that he wants me?
"You're afraid if we talk about the kiss," I clarify, "it'll mean we have to talk about why it happened and that might end your friendship with Cash?"
Wilder drops a hand from the steering wheel to his thigh. "Cash is my best friend. Or was? I'm not sure if we're friends anymore. He doesn't respond to my messages, and he's been running around Europe with some guy named Nick."
"Nick?" I gasp. "Did you Snapchat stalk Cash?"
"I didn't stalk," he rolls his shoulders. "I saw his stories."
"You said we have the same wound," I tread lightly, "but that doesn't mean it'll heal the same way. Cash ditched you, and he didn't even have the decency to say goodbye. You never got closure, and now you're living in limbo. But my mom always says limbo is closure, too. Maybe you're hanging onto something that isn't going to go back to the way it was. And it's okay to be heartbroken over it."
"I'm not heartbroken," Wilder scoffs. "I'm annoyed. There's a difference."
"Well, I'm angry," I tell him. "For you. I'm mad about the way he treated you. I'm not that angry for me. Cash... Cash is gone and I'm doing fine without him."
"Yeah," Wilder sits up straighter, his eyes meeting mine for a split second, "you are doing surprisingly well."
"I've only cried once," I shrug.
