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You don’t need to come.
My head nearly bursts with frustration.
I’m not coming to see you, you conceited jerk.
What time is the flight?
No answer. I walk up the corridor and wait… and wait…
I open the door as I stare at my phone. Text back, asshole.
I’ll pick you up at 5:00 p.m. from work.
I text back.
Don’t be late.
An answer immediately bounces back.
Don’t push me.
I narrow my eyes, and text back.
Don’t you push me!
* * *
5:00 p.m. on the dot, my phone beeps with a text.
I’m downstairs.
I exhale heavily. Just reading his name on a text infuriates me. This weekend should be interesting. No fighting, I remind myself.
I look around, have I forgotten anything?
I grab my small suitcase and jacket, and I make my way downstairs.
Nathan’s black Tesla is parked in a loading zone. He sees me approaching, gets out of the car, and he takes my bag from me.
“Hi,” he says in a clipped tone as he puts it in the trunk.
“Hi.” Without making eye contact, I get in the car and slam the door.
Moments later, he pulls out into traffic. His jaw ticks as he looks in the rearview mirror. He’s clenching his teeth, and I know he’s still pissed. This is all apparently my fault.
Well, screw him.
He’s acting like a complete baby.
So what? We got drunk and had a momentary brain snap. So what? He had an erection. I’ve felt that damn thing in my back every morning for two years, he’s kidding himself if the thinks this is something new for me. He’s acting like
he’s been violated or something. He was there and in the moment, too, but of course, he’s blaming me.
Ugh…. boils my blood just thinking about it.
I cross my arms and look out of the window. Well, if he doesn’t want to talk, neither do I.
Twenty silent minutes later, we arrive at the airport, and Nathan pulls into the long-term parking lot. He scans his card, and the boom gate rises to let us in. My eyes flick over to him.
