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The kids finish packing things away just as the bell rings, letting them know it’s time to grab their shit and scram, and that’s exactly what they do. I love my kids. At the moment, they’re the only joy in my day, and despite my broken heart, they manage to keep me from breaking down. Knowing they’re depending on me to give them an education gives me something to work toward and keeps my mind off the inevitable.
Some days are better than others, but today . . . well, fuck. Today was about as bad as it gets. I was scrambling through my closet for an old dress and stumbled upon the hiding spot where Cassie stashed all the shit I had from Carter, his suit shirt laying right on top.
I crumbled like a fucking bitch, gripping the shirt with everything I had and sobbing right there on my bedroom floor. His scent had long faded from that night.
I pulled my shit together and tried not to think about it, but the box broke me. After getting myself dressed and ready, I got my ass to the school, but I can’t lie, it’s been circling my mind all day. But I refused to shed a tear. Maybe I’m getting stronger, or maybe I’m just getting better at pretending I don’t miss him.
Letting out a breath, I double check I have everything before locking up my classroom. The only good thing about today is it’s Friday, and I can finally let loose and drown myself in a bottle of wine while either doing a deep dive through the box of memories or studiously ignoring it, pretending I never saw it at all.
It’s only a twenty-minute drive to my apartment, but just my luck, I get stuck behind a moron who has absolutely no idea how to drive, blissfully unaware that he’s keeping me from my new-found drinking addiction. “Get out of my fucking way,” I yell at my windshield, the frustration gnawing at me. Though yelling at him is pointless. It’s not like the fucker can hear me, but getting it out feels damn good.
Perhaps I need to look into one of those rage room places and spend a few hours tearing the place to shreds. Surely that could help, and I’m sure Cassie would love it too, not that she has anything to rage about.
The douchebag driver finally picks up his pace, but not by much, and I resist the urge to flash my lights at him. I’ve never really been one for road rage, but I can see the appeal. The traffic lights turn yellow, and I keep up my speed, knowing that I will make it across the intersection safely. But of course, the fucker slams on his brakes.
“FUCK!” I screech, holding the steering wheel in a death grip as I step on my brakes, but it’s too late. My car slams into his ass, quickly followed by the few drivers behind me. I fly forward in my seat, but the seat belt catches and locks me in place, my head jolting forward and giving me whiplash.
My chest aches from the seatbelt, and I quickly check myself, making sure I haven’t missed any injuries, but mostly, I’m alright—certainly alright enough to give this asshole a piece of my mind. My windshield is shattered, and seeing the moron driver in front getting out of his car, I hastily scramble for the seat belt buckle, seeing nothing but red.
Pushing out of my destroyed car, I storm toward him. The movement causes my neck and chest to hurt, but I’m too fired up to care. “What the fuck is your problem?” I demand, reaching the asshole and watching as he looks at me in surprise. “Do you have any idea how to drive? I mean, fuck! Who the hell gave you a license?”
The guy looks to be a twenty-something idiot with his hat turned to the side and baggy as fuck jeans that are only held up because he stands with his feet about a mile apart. The dickhead’s just missing a chain hanging from his pocket and I swear he could have stepped right out of the nineties. Fucking loser.
He looks at me blankly and that only enrages me further. “Answer me, you moron.”
“Uh . . .” he grumbles. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Bullshit,” I yell as the drivers from the other cars start gathering around. “I’ve been following your sorry ass for ten minutes. You were swerving all over the place and you haven’t once been able to maintain the correct speed limit. You cut three people off and nearly ran over a pedestrian. And now, you’ve destroyed not only my car but all of theirs.” I wave my hand, pointing toward the other angry drivers who, no doubt, just want to get home like me. “I hope you’re up to scratch on your insurance because you’re gonna pay for all of this.”
