The Heavy Passenger
Anthony tossed a sodden, lake-smelling towel into the back of the truck bed, the wet fabric hitting the metal with a heavy thud.
Water was still dripping down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his T-shirt, but he didn't seem to notice.
The sun was still high enough to bake the gravel, and the lake behind us was still buzzing with the distant shrieks of kids and the low drone of boat engines from the stragglers who hadn't had their fill of summer yet.
"Girls bailed early," he said, hauling himself into the driver's seat. He wiped a hand over his face, clearing away the sweat and lake water. "Harper claimed they needed 'emergency girl time,' which is usually code for gossip, but Bree looked off. You notice that?"
My pulse kicked against my ribs like a caged bird, but I kept my features locked tight. I slid into the passenger seat, the hot vinyl burning through my jeans. "Little sun, little heat—happens to everyone, Tone. Not everyone is built to bake in the middle of a cove all day."
Anthony frowned, shoving the keys into the ignition with a sharp twist. The engine roared to life, a familiar, grumbling beast. "Nah, this was more than that.
She looked pale. Eyes all puffy and red.
Like she'd been crying or something." He shifted into gear but didn't pull away immediately.
He shot me a look—half-accusing, half-worried, the sharp instinct of a brother who had spent a lifetime being a human shield.
"You're telling me you didn't see that?
You were standing right there on the dock. "
I leaned back, letting the old seat creak beneath my weight.
I focused on the dusty dashboard, on the small plastic hula girl that had been glued there as a joke three years ago.
"I saw she didn't look great. But Aubrey's grown.
If she wanted to tell us why her eyes were red, she would've.
Prying isn't going to make her talk any faster. "
He muttered something under his breath—probably a curse—and finally pulled onto the gravel road, the tires kicking up a cloud of white dust that swallowed the rearview mirror.
"She's hiding something. I can feel it in my gut, Nick.
It's like a fire smoldering behind a closed door.
You think it's out, and then you realize the whole damn house is about to go. "
He wasn't wrong. He just didn't realize the house had already burned to the ground.
The memory of her shaking in my arms behind the trees slammed back into me with the force of a physical blow.
I could still feel the tremble of her voice against my chest when she'd finally whispered the words—I'm pregnant.
I could still feel the damp heat of her tears soaking through my shirt.
I gripped my own knees, my calloused fingers digging into the denim, forcing myself to remain a statue.
"Maybe she just needed her friends," I said, my voice carefully neutral, measuring out every syllable. "She's been gone seven years. Coming home like this... without the wedding, without the life she planned... that's enough to mess with anyone's head. Give her a break."
Anthony huffed, the sound sharp in the cramped cab.
"Still. I don't like it. Bree's always been strong—stubborn as a mule—but she's never been good at asking for help.
Never. She bottles shit up until the pressure cracks the glass.
" He glanced at me again, suspicion finally creeping into the corners of his eyes.
"You'd tell me if you knew something, right? If she said something to you?"
The question landed between us like an unexploded pipe bomb.
I stared out the window at the blur of pine trees and jagged rock, my jaw so tight it was a miracle my teeth didn't crack.
Lying to Anthony was like lying to a mirror—we'd been through too much for the truth to be easily hidden. But this wasn't my truth to tell.
"Yeah," I said finally, the word feeling heavy and dishonest. "I'd tell you."
It wasn't a total lie. Maybe one day, when she was standing on solid ground and the secret wasn't a weapon used against her, I would. But right now, Aubrey's secret was her only armor. And the only thing I could do was stand watch over it.
Anthony reached over and cranked up the radio, a heavy bass line filling the cabin and drowning out the rest of his thoughts. He seemed satisfied, or at least distracted enough to stop digging.
But my mind refused to quiet down. Every mile closer to town, the weight of what I knew pressed harder against my chest. Aubrey wasn't just fighting a broken heart or a bruised ego. She was carrying a life. She was facing the terrifying unknown, and she was doing it in a town that loved to talk.
The thought of her facing it alone—of her lying in that old bedroom wondering how she was going to survive—made my chest ache in a way I hadn't felt in a decade.
I looked at my hands, stained with oil and scarred by years of labor, and realized that for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to fix a machine.
I wanted to fix the world for the girl in the back of Harper's car.
And that realization was the most dangerous thing of all.
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Small town.
Angst.
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