It dots her hair, darkening the strands where it lands. She tugs the hood tighter around her face, shivering once and remaining quiet.
I shift her suitcase to my left hand as I shrug off my jacket, draping it over her so she’s warm.
An old reflex my mama drilled into me before I was tall enough to reach the door handle on her old truck.
“You take care of people, Reed. That’s what we do.”
I open the passenger door first. The rain has picked up now, a slow, rhythmic patter against the structure’s roof.
“Careful,” I murmur, as I brace my hand above the doorframe, so she doesn’t bump her head.
She climbs in slowly, her movements small and cautious.
The overhead lights hit her face just enough for me to see the faint curiosity in her eyes.
She settles into the passenger seat, and I close the door softly, avoiding a slam.
I circle back to the driver’s side, and she’s looking out the window, not at the rain, but at me.
Her eyes are glossy in the dim light, not crying, but on the brink of it, that worn-out look people get after they’ve held too much for too long.
I load her bags into the back, along with her purse. She watches me through the rearview mirror the entire time. I can feel her eyes burning straight through me.
When I finally sit behind the wheel, the air inside the truck feels warmer. She’s now turned toward me, her hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The bruise reflects the faint dashboard light. I look away before the anger comes back.
“Seatbelt,” I say quietly.
She blinks, like she’s waking from a thought, and reaches for it. The soft click echoes in the silence.
I start the engine. The hum fills the space between us, but she’s still staring.
I finally glance her way. “What?”
Her lips twitch, a faint smile. “Nothing… you do all that; carry the bags, give me your jacket, open doors, like it’s automatic.”
“Was raised that way.”
“By your mom?”
I nod once, eyes on the rearview. “Yeah.”
She looks down at her lap, her fingers tracing the seam of her jeans. “She did a good job.”
Something twists in my chest. “Yeah,” I mumble. “She did.”
Outside, the rain begins to fall harder. The wipers move slowly as I pull out of the structure, headlights cutting through the darkness.
She leans her head against the window, watching the city lights blur past as her reflection meets mine.
The silence isn’t awkward anymore like before, and honestly, I’m getting used to her company.
As we leave Nashville behind, I still feel her eyes on me, not with fear this time, but something gentler, something that feels a lot like trust.
The rain has faded into mist by the time we’re halfway to Ruby Ridge. The truck hums steadily, its headlights cutting through the dark stretch of Tennessee highway.
She sits cross-legged in the passenger seat now, her hair loose around her shoulders. She’s been talking for the last fifteen minutes.
And honestly, I’m not even pretending to dislike it.
