Emma:
The rain had softened by the time we pulled away from the curb, reduced to a mist that smeared the windshield and turned the streetlights into halos. Wright drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on my knee like it belonged there—like it always had. Neither of us spoke.
My wet clothes were folded carefully in the backseat. His jacket was around my body, heavy and warm, still holding his scent. I stared straight ahead, afraid that if I looked at him too long, I’d either cry or ask him to turn the car around and pretend the world didn’t exist.
The radio crackled softly, some holiday ad bleeding through the static.
Tree lighting ceremony—this Friday night.
I swallowed.
It was too soon for Christmas. Too soon for lights and cheer and promises people liked to ma
