Chapter 2: The Turn Megan Takes Without Asking
I kept my eyes on the road, but I watched Abigail in the dark reflection of the passenger window. The tear had dried halfway down her cheek. Her face looked emptied out, as if whatever had happened at the party had taken the part of her that knew how to react.
The road away from the house curved past a row of parked cars and a strip of lawn silvered by dusk. Behind us, the party still glowed through the windows of the large house, bright and ordinary. I could see people moving behind the curtains. Someone opened the front door, and a rectangle of warm light spilled across the driveway.
I passed the turn that would have taken us back.
Abigail's head moved sharply. Her hand lifted from her lap, not quite reaching for me. She pointed toward the opposite direction, toward the main road.
It was a small motion, but it was clear.
“I heard you,” I said, though she had not spoken.
Her hand dropped again. She turned back to the window.
I drove toward the main road.
At the first intersection, I slowed. The gas station ahead was open, its canopy shining white against the deepening sky. Beyond it sat a closed pharmacy and a laundromat with two empty spaces in front. I considered pulling over there, somewhere public but quiet. Then I saw Abigail's shoulders tighten when another car came up behind us, its headlights filling the rearview mirror.
I kept moving.
The phone in the cup holder vibrated.
Abigail flinched before I could reach for it.
The screen lit the inside of the car with a pale rectangle. A group notification appeared across it, showing a name I did not recognize and a line of text partly hidden beneath the time. I caught only the beginning: Where is—
Then the screen went dark.
I did not touch the phone again. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until the leather pressed ridges into my palms.
A second vibration came almost immediately.
This time the phone slid against the plastic cup holder and turned just enough for the screen to face Abigail. She looked at it, then away. The light faded before I could read more.
I wanted to ask who was calling. I wanted to ask whether someone had followed her outside, whether she had left something behind, whether she needed me to turn around or drive faster. Each question rose and stopped behind my teeth.
She had already told me what she could tell me: not back.
At the next red light, I reached over and turned the phone facedown. Abigail's eyes dropped to my hand.
“I’m taking you somewhere quiet,” I said.
The light changed before she answered, though there was no answer to give.
I turned toward home.
For several minutes, neither of us moved except with the car. The air smelled faintly of the citrus cleaner I used on the dashboard. A loose strand of Abigail's hair had caught beneath the slipping clip, and every time we passed beneath a streetlamp, I saw it tremble against her cheek.
At a stop sign, she pressed her palm flat against the passenger door.
Not to open it. Just to find the handle.
I stopped anyway.
She looked at the door, then at the road ahead. Her breathing had gone shallow. I waited through one full count of silence, then eased forward when she withdrew her hand.
The phone vibrated again.
This time the message preview stayed visible. It showed a number instead of a name, followed by three words:
Please come back now.
Abigail saw it.
Her fingers closed around the edge of her jacket. She leaned forward and took the phone from the cup holder before I could. For one second, the screen reflected in her eyes. Then she locked it and held it against her chest.
I didn't reach for it.
She turned the phone facedown on her thigh, keeping one hand over it as if it might move by itself.
The houses thinned as we left the commercial road. Dusk settled fully over the windshield. I took the longer route home, avoiding the streets near the party without announcing that choice. Abigail watched the side mirror until the last bright headlights disappeared behind us.
At the next turn, she lifted her hand again.
This time she pointed straight ahead.
May you like
I followed.
Ahead, the road narrowed between dark trees, and our headlights found the locked gate of a quiet park before either of us was ready for what waited beyond it.
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