KAIA
I shouldn’t be in this car.
The clinic is literally a ten, maybe fifteen minute walk from the apartment. Ten, if I power-walk. Fifteen, if I get distracted staring at the sky and pretending I don’t have problems. Either way, I could’ve just walked. But no. Here I am, sitting stiff in his car, leather cold under my thighs, his silence pressing against my skin like wind.
I can’t talk. My tongue feels like cement in my mouth. Every time I think about saying something, I remember that nerve wrecking, terrifying little line from earlier—times three, times four—and I clamp my lips shut so hard it hurts.
By the time we’re a couple buildings to the clinic, my throat itches and I clear it.
“Just drop me here,” I say quickly, staring out the window. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
He doe
