How could I not feel her the moment she was next to me in line, smiling …
Smiling like a psychopath,she said.
It was Grace all along.
And I wasted so much time …
No, not wasted. I squeeze my forehead, trying to make this all make sense. Isn’t it even worse now? Grace betrayed me. I was already unraveling when I ran out here, but Grace has just given a final tug. I’ve been pulled apart, and I’m lying in shambles on the dirty floor of my dad’s truck.
My phone buzzes with more and more messages from Grace—Poppy Grace—telling me about Darren, the ins and outs of hiscase that I never knew, and suddenly, I feel sick seeing it from his perspective. The Evan in that bar was the one I grew up with, not so much a golden boy as an untouchable hurricane, too wild for my dad to control, too brazen for my granddad to bully. And I know he provoked Darren. I know he picked that fight. It was one of his greatest skills—taunting and poking the bear until it finally attacked. But he could always claim that he was the innocent victim.
Man, I hated Old-Evan sometimes.
Yes, what Darren did was wrong, no question. That doesn’t make Evan blameless.
And if I’m being honest with myself—really, truly honest—everything Grace—Poppy!—is saying is right. Darren didn’t deserve to rot behind bars for a bar fight. And ifshe’sbeing honest that his life was really as hard as she says it was …
Don’t I want mercy for someone like him?
Like I want it for me?
A sob escapes my throat, but I hold it back.
I’m a hard personality, but somehow in people like Scottie, Grace, Poppy, heck, half the people who know me in Mullet Ridge, I’ve found people who see past my anger and who support me anyway. I’ve found a group of people who now give me the kind of compassion Darren was denied his whole life.
Until Poppy Grace.
I ran from her, online and in real life. Discarded her the same way my granddad did when I was no longer useful to him.
What do I do now?
It’s so quiet in the cab, the only sounds are my ragged breathing and the mutedtickof snow against the windshield. My hands are getting stiff. Why didn’t I turn on the truck? Am I trying to punish myself?
I glance down at my phone on my lap, and my eyes fall on two words—five minutes—before the screen goes dark from disuse.
Five minutes?
The dark screen gives me a glimpse of what a mess I am. My hair is untamed in the best of circumstances. Right now, it looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket.
I’m just getting back on my phone when a knock on my window startles me, and my phone drops between the seat and the console. Crap. My hands aren’t as big as Darren Murphy’s, but I’m six-four. They’re not small. Another knock sounds on the window, but my hand is currently crammed between the seat, fumbling. I feel one of the buttons and jam it in my attempt to use my first two fingers as tweezers. The phone is cold and slips out of my fingers, but I try the move again, and this time, I pinch it and am able to pull it gently up.
It drops to my lap, and I open the phone at the same time that the man at my window starts talking.
“Hey, I’m sorry to bug you, Ollie. I get that you don’t want to see me, but I need to apologize.”
I’m trying to read Grace’s message at the same time that I realizeDarren Murphy is at my window apologizing.
I try to keep my eyes on my screen while turning my face to Darren. I hold a cold finger up. “Hold on!”
And then I read her last few messages …
She’s giving me five minutes to respond or she’s deleting the app.
HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?
What am I even supposed to say?
My eyes fly to the dash clock, but I’m the idiot who didn’t turn the car on, hence why it’s friggin’ freezing in here. My cold fingers barely work the screen. The phone screen dims, then flickers. Of course. I’ve been sitting here in freezing temperatures for—how long? Ten minutes? More? I tap frantically on the screen, but it’s frozen. WHAT? I tap again and again.
