18
Aubrey
Islam the truck into park and throw the door open, desperate to put some space between me and Trent.
The last six hours have been torture. I wanted to sit there and ignore him the whole time, but every time he opened his mouth, I felt that anger spark in my chest like a match striking over and over again.
The thing is—I’m not even sure what I’m angry about anymore. And that’s what’s really pissing me off. I wish I wasn’t angry. I wish I could just let go of everything that happened. I want to. Because all it’s actually doing is torturing me and creating this unbearable atmosphere between us.
Before we started hooking up a little over a year ago, we were friends. Trent’s been in my life for as long as I can remember. Don’t get me wrong, I crushed on him, loved him quietly for most of that time... but before we complicated things, we got along so well.
So, the idea that I can’t be that way with him anymore—it kills me.
And I blame him.
But is it really just his fault? No, not at all. I knew what we were, and he made it clear what he was able to give me. He was honest from the get-go. But my heart thought things would change over time—and if I’m being honest, they did. I know they did. He just wouldn’t ever admit it.
Even when I was crying in his face, begging him to be honest with me, he wouldn’t.
And now he wants everything to just be fine. He wants to invade my space while I’m still trying to pick up the pieces he broke, and I can’t, for the life of me, work out why.
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
Why does he keep showing up at my work or agree to this road trip, when he knows how much I was hurt by what happened?
I take a few minutes, exhaling the breath I’ve been holding the whole way here, and shake off the tension.
Right now isn’t about Trent. Or me. Or our history.
I have a job to do, and the sooner I can get it done, the sooner I can drive back home and create some distance.
“Do you need any help?” Trent asks, cutting through my internal spiral of thoughts as he rounds the back of the truck.
My head snaps in his direction, the annoyance flaring right back into place at the sound of his voice. “Do you not think you’ve done enough?”
His face drops immediately, and I instantly wish I could take the comment back. The hurt in his expression is clear as day, and I fucking hate myself for putting it there.
For a moment, we just stand there—Trent with his hands shoved into his pockets, me leaning against the truck, staring.
He’s fucking breathtaking. Even in anger I can see it as clear as day.
Those piercing blue eyes, the sharp jawline softened just enough by stubble.
The T-shirt clings in all the right places, tracing the muscles I’ve touched more times than I’m willing to admit.
The way it hugs his biceps, the veins standing out like they’re daring me to look.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s fine. You’re right. I’ll just wait in the truck for you,” he replies, offering me a soft smile—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And I watch as he slowly walks around the truck and climbs back into the passenger seat.
As his door closes, I step into action, forcing my focus onto the job at hand rather than how I’ve just hurt Trent’s feelings. I begin the task of carrying each tier into the venue, carefully assembling the cake and finishing it off with the final decorations.
After chatting to the bride and congratulating her on her wedding, I walk back toward Trent’s truck with a smile tugging at my lips.
She loved the cake—cried the moment she saw it—and the tears in her eyes brought some to mine too.
It’s been a while since I’ve made a cake to order, especially since opening the bakery, but the thrill of seeing her reaction has stirred something to life inside me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.
When I reach the truck, I open the door and slide inside, making Trent jump in the process. I can’t stop the smile on my face as I close the door, but the heat of his stare pins me to the spot, holding me still.
“What?” I ask, turning to look at him.
“Nothing,” he says quietly, eyes still on me. “Just… haven’t seen you smile like that in ages. Well—not around me, anyway.”
I freeze for a second, the smile fading a little as his words settle in my chest.
It’s not an accusation. There’s no bitterness in his voice. Just quiet honesty—and something about that makes it land even heavier.
I contemplate ignoring the comment and starting the engine, but instead, I find myself turning my body properly toward him, the smile tugging its way back to my lips.
“The bride loved the cake,” I say, my voice light with pure joy. “She cried.”
“That’s amazing, Bree.” His face lights up, and his voice holds nothing but pride. “Of course she was going to love it—you’re so talented.”
“I’ve been so nervous about making this cake,” I admit, laughing softly. “Especially with hardly any instructions on what she actually wanted—but the way she looked when she saw it… ahh, it just made my heart sing.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
“Thanks,” I reply softly.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the tension from earlier shifting—slipping into something a little more charged.
Trent has always been the person I shared my good news with. My wins, my excitement.
And this moment, right here, feels so familiar.
So familiar it hurts.
It’s warm and electric, and so full of things neither of us are saying, and it’s making it hard to breathe.
Needing to break the moment before it pulls me under completely, I fumble for the keys in my lap. My fingers feel clumsy as I grab them, the metal slipping once between my hands as I try to jam them into the ignition.
I turn them.
Nothing happens.
I blink, twisting the keys again—harder this time.
Still nothing.
“Why is nothing happening? Why won’t it start?” I snap, twisting the keys again like that’ll magically fix it.
“I have no idea. Try again,” Trent says, leaning over slightly to get a better look at the dash.
“I am trying, and nothing is working!” The panic and annoyance start creeping back in, slowly smothering the good mood I’d felt just minutes ago.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
My eyes flick to him, heart skipping. “What? What is it?”
“Could be the battery. Maybe the starter. It’s been sitting for a while since I had the accident,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face.
“So what does that mean? Who do we need to call?”
“I can call roadside assistance,” he replies with a sigh, already reaching for his phone. “See if they can get us over to a garage. But I don’t know what they’ll be able to do on a Saturday.”
“They have to fix it, Trent. We live too far away to call someone to come get us, and we can’t stay here.”
He doesn’t say anything to that—just nods and presses his phone to his ear, turning slightly away as he talks to whoever picks up.
I press my lips together and inhale slowly, praying to the truck gods that this will all sort itself out quickly. Because I can’t be stuck here—not with him.