Page 21

REMI

For most of the day, their message has been jumping around inside my head.

As I wait on tables, refill drinks, and complete orders, I still can’t get their words to leave me alone.

If I were a lesser person, I would crumble under the weight of their message.

But I’m not a lesser person. I refuse to give up on the things I want, which brings me to now.

The moment I spy his car in the parking lot, I’m hollering to Charlene that I’ll be back.

My beta mother and beta father didn’t raise me to stick my head in the sand and allow things to happen to me without some kickback.

While my mother may have made my informative years suck, my father was right there, building me up into the person I am now.

The message lingers in my mind, a bitter echo that refuses to fade.

My hands tremble slightly as I untie the apron from around my waist, the knot giving way under a sharp tug.

Without hesitation, I cast it onto the table, the fabric crumpling in a heap as though reflecting the turmoil within me.

I don’t look at Charlene or anyone else in the café—I can’t bear their eyes on me.

My footsteps are fast and uneven as I push my way out the door, the cool air outside biting against my skin.

The hurt feels like a weight pressing down on my chest, and yet, I keep moving, driven by an impulsive need to escape.

The parking lot stretches before me like a battlefield, the rows of cars gleaming under the dim halo of streetlights.

My steps are deliberate and quick—each one infused with a blend of anger and resolve.

Tires and grills blur past in my peripheral vision as I navigate the maze of parked vehicles, my focus narrowing to his car, a beacon in the distance.

The cool night air sharpens my senses, but it does little to calm the storm brewing within me.

With each stride, the noise around me fades.

The distant murmur of traffic, the occasional slam of a car door—all dissolve into insignificance as my singular thought drives me forward: I will face him.

My chest tightens with anticipation as adrenaline courses through my veins, making my pulse hammer against my ribs.

The soft crunch of gravel underfoot keeps pace with the rhythm of my emotions—quickening, surging—as I close the gap between us.

His car looms closer now, its silhouette distinct against the glow of the nearby lamppost. The tension coils tighter inside me, like a spring wound to its breaking point.

There’s no turning back, no second-guessing.

Only the confrontation ahead, and the truth that demands to be unearthed.

The moment he sees me coming toward him, he sits up straighter in his seat. His eyes are wide and panicked. It would be comical if I weren’t so upset by the way they are treating me.

As I come to a stop beside his car, the air seems heavier, thick with the tension that crackles in the small space between us.

My chest rises and falls as I catch my breath, though the pounding of my heart refuses to slow.

The lamplight casts a harsh gleam over the windshield, obscuring his face momentarily, yet I know his gaze is locked on me.

I raise my hand, fingers curling into a fist that trembles ever so slightly—not from fear, but from the roiling upset that has been clawing at me all day. The glass between us feels like an invisible barrier, his refusal to roll it down only fueling the storm raging within me.

Knock.

The sound is sharp and decisive, reverberating through the night air with an authority that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

My knuckles sting faintly from the impact, but I barely notice.

He flinches at the noise, his wide eyes darting up to meet mine.

Still, the window remains stubbornly closed, the faint glare of the lamplight glinting off its smooth surface like a shield he refuses to lower.

Knock. Knock.

This time, the rhythm is firmer, more insistent—a demand rather than a request. Each strike against the glass carries the weight of my upset, my determination, and my refusal to be dismissed.

My breath fogs the cool surface in uneven bursts, a silent testament to the emotions I can no longer contain.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he rolls down his window. “Hey?” Tripp says, caught in the act of watching me.

“Why’d you all do it?” I ask, ignoring his greeting. I want answers, and since he’s the only one here, he’ll be the one I get answers from.

Tripp’s brows furrow deeply, his lips parting ever so slightly as he shoots me a look of pure, unguarded confusion. It’s not the sort of confusion born from feigned ignorance—it’s raw, almost vulnerable as if my question has shattered whatever assumptions he held about this confrontation.

“What?” he asks, his voice low and edged with hesitation, the single word hanging between us like a fragile thread waiting to snap.

“Last night. Why did you all do that to me?”

He straightens in his seat further, shooting me a look. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Oh, come off it. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Tripp’s gaze flickers downward, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he’s wrestling with thoughts too tangled to unravel quickly.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening against the dim glow of the dashboard.

For a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the engine, a mechanical heartbeat filling the silence between us.

I see it—the moment he decides. His hand hesitates, then moves to the door handle with a deliberateness that feels almost resigned.

He looks at me one last time, his expression unreadable, and then he pushes the door open. The creak of the hinges cuts through the night like a sigh, and instinctively, I step back, giving him space to emerge. The air between us feels charged, a precarious balance of tension and anticipation.

As he climbs out, his movements are slow and cautious, like someone approaching a fragile truth they’re not sure they’re ready to face.

Once he closes the door behind him, leaning back against it, I cross my arms over my chest to wait for his explanation. He’s silent for several minutes as if trying to come up with the answer that will get them out of the blunder they find themselves in.

“Well?” I ask, my tone just this side of snarky.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes dart to the shadows pooling beneath the streetlamp, the jagged outline of distant trees, the faint stars barely visible against the haze of the city.

It’s as if he’s searching for the right words, sifting through the night sky for an excuse that might pass muster.

His shoulders tense, his foot scuffs the gravel, and still, his silence stretches thin between us, taut as a worn-out thread.

“Tripp,” I press, my voice sharp now, cutting through the wall of his avoidance. But he doesn’t meet my gaze.

His attention lingers on everything but me—the peeling paint on a nearby fence, the glint of a stray bottle cap on the ground, and the way the wind stirs the leaves like restless whispers.

His jaw works as though he’s rehearsing, testing out explanations in his head, discarding each one before it ever reaches his lips.

The longer he stalls, the harder it is to ignore the growing knot of frustration tightening in my chest. It’s not just the silence that eats at me—it’s the blatant attempt to evade the truth, to pretend the question hanging between us isn’t burning brighter with every second he refuses to answer.

“Remi, I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, finally meeting my eyes.

“You all stood me up!” I yell out of frustration and upset. “I sat here for hours last night, waiting for you all to show up and have coffee with me.”

Tripp’s face darkens, his brows knitting together like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

His lips part slightly, but no words escape, as if the accusation catches him off guard.

He stares at me, his eyes narrowing, their intensity sharp enough to make my breath hitch.

It’s not anger—not yet—but a swirling mix of disbelief and confusion, as though he’s trying to discern whether this is some cruel joke or a truth he doesn’t want to admit.

His gaze locks onto mine, searching, probing, as if trying to peel back the layers of my frustration to see if there’s a lie hidden beneath.

“Remi, I promise you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

We stand silently for several minutes, each one of us taking the other in. His gaze flicks over my face, landing on my lips several times. His body tightens, preparing for something only he knows about.

So he can’t lie anymore, I bring my phone out of the front pocket of my jeans to show him exactly what I’m talking about.

I click on the app and then navigate to the messages.

The only string of messages that I still have is with his pack, so it’s easy to find.

I click on the message and then shove my phone in his face.

He has to tilt his head back to read my phone. The longer he remains silent, the more frustrated I become. His eyes carefully take in the message thread, reading the message I know peg as offensive.

His eyes widen, the sharp glint of disbelief cutting through his initial confusion.

They dart back and forth across the screen as though the words might rearrange themselves into something less damning.

Then, in a sudden, jerking motion, his gaze shoots up to meet mine, his expression a chaotic storm of shock and something darker.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice low and edged with a tension that makes my pulse quicken.

“ This is your pack making plans with me and then standing me up.”