Evan doesn’t ask if I want to walk. Doesn’t ask if I’d rather go somewhere else. Doesn’t ask anything.
He just leads.
The car door is held open for me, like I’m a VIP.
Like I’m fragile.
Like I’m property.
I get in.
The door shuts.
And the sound of it, thick and final, makes my stomach drop.
I stare out the window as we pull into traffic. The city moves around me, busy and bright and indifferent. People on sidewalks, laughing, carrying coffee, arguing into phones. Normal life. My chest aches with the sheer unfairness of it.
Somewhere in Buckhorn, the snow is soft and quiet. It smells like pine. My mom’s house smells like cinnamon candles and laundry detergent and safety. The McCoy kitchen smells like coffee and bacon and warmth.
Dallas’s voice still lives in my head like a bruise you can’t stop touching.
Lunch is at a place so fancy the menus don’t have prices, which always makes me feel like I’m in a social experiment:How long can you pretend you belong before you start sweating?
Evan orders for me, of course.
He always has.
“Salmon,” he says to the waiter, smiling. “And a side salad.”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
Because the last time I tried to order for myself, Evan had leaned in and whispered,Don’t be difficult.
So I sit there while he talks about “damage control” and “next steps” like my life is a board meeting.
I pick at the salad.
My appetite left my body somewhere around Day Three of being monitored.
“What’s wrong?” Evan asks, tilting his head like he’s a concerned boyfriend in a romcom.
Nothing, I want to say.
Everything, I want to scream.
I swallow. “I’m tired.”
He nods like he approves of that. Like tired is acceptable.
“You’ll feel better once we get everything back on track,” he says.
Back on track.
There’s that phrase again. As if I’m a train. As if the worst thing I ever did was derail.
“Your father had an idea,” Evan adds casually, like he’s discussing dessert.
My stomach knots instantly.
