8 Zara #2
“You better fucking sit down.” The words aren’t loud, or harsh, but serious in a way that makes my stomach knot.
“I don’t care how pissed you are at me. I am not letting you walk across campus alone at night.
You can scream at me, hate me, never talk to me again after I drop you off.
Fine. But you’re getting home in this car. ”
The curse lands like a line in the sand, but it’s the rest of it that gets me. The part where he’s already accepted—just for a second—that I might cut him off. That he might lose me over this. And he’s still here, insisting on my safety first.
My anger slips, just a little more.
I hate that it does.
I hate that there’s still a part of me that hears that and melts, because of course he’d still protect me even if I told him I never wanted to see his stupid face again.
I clamp down on it, hard. I know I have a right to be mad. I need him to feel that. To remember it next time he’s about to throw a punch. So I don’t say thank you. I don’t say I get it. I just lift my chin and slide into the seat without a word.
He exhales, like he’d been holding that breath hostage, and shuts the door more gently than he probably wants to. As he rounds the front of the car, I stare straight ahead, fingers twisting in the hem of my skirt. My lungs feel tight, unable to figure out how to breathe right again.
Don’t forgive him right away.
You can love him and still be mad. Both can exist. That’s what my therapist says.
He gets in, buckles his seat belt, and starts the engine. For once, he doesn’t immediately reach for the AUX. He just puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.
Silence fills the space between us like never before.
Usually, even when we’re quiet, it’s comfortable. It’s random smiles, shared looks, and him tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel while I pretend not to notice. Now it’s stiff, awkward, and wrong.
The radio finally kicks on as we get a little distance from the house, mid-song. It takes me two seconds to recognize it. Bad Omens, Just Pretend.
I love this song. I have it on three playlists.
Normally I’d start humming by the second chorus, then full-on singing the bridge, complete with dramatic hand motions that make him roll his eyes. Tonight, however, I bite my tongue (literally) to stop myself from mouthing the words.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand flex on the steering wheel. His knuckles look even worse in the dashboard glow—red and swollen across the middle two fingers.
His jaw is clenched, shadowed in the passing streetlights. He shifts his grip like the whole car is slightly too small for his body right now.
I want to reach over and take his hand. But then I also want to yell at him again.
I end up doing neither, staring out the window instead as campus blurs by in streaks of light and dark.
The song hits the line about pretending, about being better off as friends, and some bitter, hysterical part of me wants to laugh.
Like, yeah. Tell me how that’s going for you.
The drive isn’t long, but it stretches out forever.
Every bump in the road feels magnified. When we finally pull into the student lot behind our dorms and he kills the engine, the sudden silence rings in my ears.
For a second, I think he might say something.
Another apology. Some explanation. Maybe he’ll finally admit what’s actually going on in his head when it comes to me.
Instead, he just sits there, fingers still wrapped around the wheel, staring straight ahead.
The disappointment that flares up is stupid. I’m the one who decided to be mad and stay mad, and yet a selfish little part of me still wanted him to push, to fight for us to be okay.
“Okay,” I say, because apparently I enjoy emotional whiplash. “Cool. Great talk.”
I unbuckle, shove the door open, and climb out before I can say something I’ll regret. I get down, and wrap my arms around myself as I start toward the building without waiting for him.
I hear his door open behind me. His footsteps fall into place a few paces back and to the side. Just outside my peripheral vision but close enough that I know he’s there yet far enough that I can pretend we’re not glued at the hip.
We never walk like this. He’s always by my side close enough for me to bump my shoulder against him. Now I feel every inch of space between us.
He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets. I stare straight ahead at the glass doors to my building, the yellow glow of the lobby, the comfort of knowing I can go upstairs and fall apart in private.
We reach the entrance. I stop, hand on the handle, still facing the glass.
“Night, Cass,” I say, voice quieter than I’d like.
He doesn’t answer right away.
For a second, my stupid, hopeful heart thinks maybe he’s going to say more. Maybe he’ll step closer, touch my elbow, ask if I’m actually okay. Maybe he’ll say he’s going to talk to his therapist about this. About us.
“Night,” he says instead.
Just that and nothing else.
I nod, even though he can’t see my face, and pull the door open. The lobby is too bright after the dark outside. The fluorescent lights buzz in my skull as I cross the tile, hit the stairs, and only let my shoulders slump when I’m out of his line of sight.
By the time I get to my floor, my throat hurts from holding everything in. I fumble my key into the lock, shove the door open, and step into my half of the dorm. Riley isn’t here—which honestly isn’t new, but for once I don’t mind it.
The door clicks shut behind me, the sound breaking something in me. I don’t make it to the bed. I slide down the back of the door until I’m sitting on the floorboards, knees bent, skirt riding up, boots splayed out in front of me. Then the tears hit without warning.
No dramatic build-up or single cinematic tear rolling down my cheek.
It’s a full-on flood. My vision blurs, and my chest feels like someone stacked bricks on it.
I drag my hands over my face, but it does nothing.
The tears keep coming, hot and relentless.
My nose stuffs up. My mascara is probably more raccoon than anything.
I wrap my arms around my knees, pressing my forehead down until my neck aches.