My throat tightens.
I forced a laugh. “Wow, thanks for the encouragement.”
“I didn’t send you out there to waste time,” he bites out. “I sent you there to grow the fuck up!”
I press my lips together so hard they ache, my fingers curl into my lap until my nails carve half-moons into my skin.
“I have to go,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
He scoffs. That same cold, dismissive sound I’ve heard a thousand times, and he hangs up without another word.
The moment the line goes dead, the air inside the truck feels suffocating.
I suck in a sharp breath, locking my jaw to keep it from trembling. Blinking hard, I stare out the window, willing the tears back, willing the fire in my chest to die down.
But it’s too fucking hot in here.
Every inhale feels like dragging broken glass into my lungs. My heart slams against my ribs erratically, the sheer panic crawling in of what if I’m having heart attack from all of this bullshit.
One. Two. Three. Exhale.
I avoid looking at Carter.
I can’t, I don’t want his pity.
I feel the panic building, the way the world starts to tilt, the edges beginning to blur, and no amount of breathing can slow it down.
Without warning, a warm, rough hand rests on my thigh.
My body tenses at the contact, an unfamiliar feeling cracking in my chest. The firm, steady weight of his hand surprisingly grounds me.
I force myself to glance over at him, his eyes still pinned to the road. There’s a tick in his jaw, but his hand tightens slightly around my thigh, just for a second.
Like he’s telling me heunderstands.
My vision blurs again, but this time it’s not from the panic unraveling in my head. I stare down at his hand, at the way his thumb brushes once, absentmindedly, against the denim stretched over my jeans.
It’s the smallest thing, barely anything at all.
But somehow, fuck, it feels like everything.
The second mydoor clicks shut behind me, the dam breaks.
My knees hit the floor beside my bed, and I clutch the sheets like they’re the only thing shackling me to reality. A sharp, broken sob rips from my throat, and once it starts, I can’t stop it.
I press my forehead against the mattress, squeezing my eyes shut as hot tears spill down my cheeks. My chest is annoyingly tight, heaving with every breath. Every choked whimper I try and fail to swallow. My nails dig into the fabric, my shoulders tremble with each body shake that radiates throughout.
I hate him. I hate that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it’s neverenough.
The money, the designer brands, they never and haven’t meant shit to me. I used it to fill an ache in my chest, when all I ever really wanted was my father’s approval and love. In his puny mind, he thought his money could buy that.
Losing my mother sent me spiraling, dragging me into the darkest corners of my mind, where grief gnawed at me from the inside out. The thoughts came slowly at first, then all at once. The urge to numb it all, to reach for the pills that could erase all pain, every memory, and piece of myself I didn’t know how to hold onto.
But I won’t do that again.
I can’t.
I’m hanging on by a thread, trying to crawl out of a hole I let swallow me whole. I’m so desperately trying to find a reason to stay, a reason to want more. Somehow, being here, in this place I swore I’d hate, feels like the first crack of light I’ve seen in years.
