Chapter 6: Not a Rebound

At 7:52 on Sunday morning, Malcolm and I sat in his truck outside Lacey's apartment building with two coffees going cold in the cup holders.

Poppy had gone to find a parking spot for her own car.

I had slept for two hours on Dot's couch, and I was still wearing the sweatshirt I had borrowed from Malcolm's back seat.

It smelled like cedar.

"You don't have to come up," I said.

"I know."

"You've driven me around since yesterday. I'll pay you back for the gas."

He turned his head.

"Bridget, I don't want your money."

"I don't take favors I can't return. You drive, I owe you nothing, and that's the deal."

"I don't keep a tab."

"I do."

He almost smiled, and then he looked at my mouth.

It was only a second, and then he looked back at the windshield.

His hand was on the wheel, and his knuckles had gone pale against the leather.

I told myself that the heater was broken and he was cold.

My phone buzzed in my lap, and then it buzzed again.

It was 8:00, and Lacey's post had gone live.

Forty people had already liked it. Underneath, somebody had written: "Sending love, Bridget. You deserve peace."

A hot, flat anger moved through me, steadier than I had felt in two days.

I reached for the door handle, and Malcolm reached at the same time.

His hand landed over mine and stayed there.

We both looked at it.

I could feel every callus on his palm.

He moved a strand of hair off my cheek with two fingers, slowly, and he waited.

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