Chapter 3 #2
It doesn't stop me from remembering the names we'd picked out, though. Or the way he'd put his hand on my stomach during that pregnancy scare junior year and said, "It would be okay, you know. We'd figure it out."
We never did figure it out. Any of it.
My Honda chooses this moment, this exact moment when I'm covered in barn substances and emotionally wrecked from watching Nate with Emily, to completely die.
"You've got to be kidding me." I turn the key again. Nothing. Not even that grinding sound that suggests hope.
A knock on my window makes me jump. Nate, of course, looking amused and concerned in equal measure.
"Battery?" he asks when I roll down the window.
"Or the alternator. Or the car just hates me. It's been that kind of week."
"Pop the hood."
Twenty-five minutes and some creative profanity later (mine, not his), we've established that my car has shuffled off this mortal coil, at least temporarily.
"I'll drive you," he says, like it's simple. Like sitting in his truck won't be loaded with a thousand memories again.
"I'll call June."
"June's busy at the bakery. Maya's at the bar. Unless you want to smell like this until tonight, get in the truck, Harper."
He's right, which makes me hate him a little bit more. Or less. It's hard to tell anymore.
His truck still smells so familiar—leather and hay and that pine air freshener he buys in bulk. I notice the bench seat has the same rip from when we tried to move a dresser junior year. The radio preset buttons are probably still programmed to—
"Don't," I say as his hand moves toward the radio.
"You don't even know what station—"
"Third button. Country classics. The one we listened to on every road trip."
His hand freezes, then drops. We drive in silence for exactly thirty seconds before the weight becomes unbearable and he turns it on anyway.
Of course it's playing "Strawberry Wine." Of course it's the song that was on when he kissed me for the first time in this very truck.
"I can change—"
"It's fine." It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine. I'm sitting in his truck, smelling like a barn, listening to our song, and trying not to remember how his hand used to rest on my thigh when he drove, thumb tracing absent circles.
"Harper."
"Don't."
"I just—"
"I said don't." I stare out the window at passing farms, each one a reminder that this is my life now. Shadowing my ex-boyfriend who broke my heart, pretending I don't still know all his presets, acting like this doesn't hurt.
"The documentary thing," he says suddenly. "I didn't mean for it to get this big. It started as just wanting to talk to you, and then the mayor got involved, and the grant committee, and—"
"And you couldn't just ask me for coffee like a normal person?"
"Would you have said yes?"
The question hangs between us, fragile and needing careful handling.
"No," I admit.
"Exactly."
"That doesn't make this okay, Nate. Forcing me into proximity because you know I need this job."
"I know." His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm sorry."
They're the first words of apology he's offered, and they hit harder than they should. Sorry for the documentary? Sorry for leaving? Sorry for everything?
The radio switches to a commercial about Johnson's dairy farm, featuring a testimonial about Dr. Wilder's innovative program. We both pretend not to notice the irony.
Three more minutes to my house. Three more minutes of this exquisite torture.
"Tomorrow," he says as I gather my things. "Wilson Farm. Seven AM."
"Seven?"
"Cows don't care about your beauty sleep, Harps."
There it is again. Harps. Like we're still those kids who thought love was enough.
"Don't call me that."
"Harper, then."
But Harper sounds wrong in his mouth now too. Everything about this is wrong.
"Seven AM," I confirm, climbing out before I do something stupid like cry or ask him if he ever regrets it.
The truck idles until I'm inside, just like he used to do in college.
Some habits, apparently, die harder than others.
***
I'm standing in my shower, letting hot water wash away the farm debris, when my phone starts ringing. And ringing. And ringing.
I know who it is without looking.
Finally, dripping and wrapped in a towel, I answer. "What, Nate?"
"We need to talk about this. Actually talk."
"We just talked for twenty minutes in your truck."
"No, I talked around things and you stared out the window like you were planning my murder."
"Multiple murders, actually. I was workshopping methods."
He almost laughs—I can hear it in his breath. "You're going to have to talk to me eventually. Real conversation, not just interview questions and sarcasm."
"No. I have to interview you. Document your program. Smile for the documentary cameras. There's a difference."
"Is there?" His voice gets that dangerous edge. "Because last I checked, you're the one who left first."
The words hit like ice water, colder than my interrupted shower.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You took the DC internship. You chose to leave for the summer. You made that decision without discussing it with me."
"For EIGHT WEEKS!" I'm shouting at my fogged-up mirror. "I was leaving for eight weeks, not forever! And I DID discuss it with you!"
"You told me after you'd already accepted it."
"Because it was my career! My dream! And you said you supported me!"
"I did support you."
"Right. You supported me so much you left for California without even telling me. You supported me right out of your life."
"That's not—" His breathing comes hard through the phone. "It wasn't about the internship."
"Then what was it about?"
"My father was dying!"
"AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THAT EITHER!"
Silence. Just our breathing across the phone line.
"I couldn't," he says finally, quieter now. "You were so happy about DC. So excited about your future. How could I ask you to give that up to watch my dad die?"