(Rebecca's POV)
Streetlights strobe over my face through the windshield — white, dark, white, dark — and I pull the last of the hairpins out and let my hair fall.
My scalp aches. The dress smells like Connie's guest room and hospital tape and cold sidewalk, and I drop the pins into the cupholder between us and press my fingertips against my temples where the clips dug in for hours.
Eric doesn't look over. His eyes stay on the road. His hands are at ten and two, steady, and the only sign he's aware of me at all is the question he asks — quiet, careful, the way you'd ask someone standing on a ledge what they need.
"Are you sad?"
"Why would I be sad?" I say. "I dumped a jerk on live television."
The laugh comes out of Eric before he can catch it.
Not a polite laugh. Not a measured hal
