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But then he asks the question I always dread being asked.

“Is your family supportive? I know going into music is sometimes an out there thing for parents to handle, if they got it in their heads that their kid would be a doctor or a lawyer or something. But they’ve got to be proud of your success, right?”

And isn’t that a loaded question. Especially with Ares in the back, nursing his grudge against me and my family. I glance at him in the mirror, but he’s staring even harder at his phone.

“They’re generally supportive,” I finally answer. “They didn’t cut me off or anything, and they’re not trying to get me to change careers. It’s not the music that bothers them, but the fact that I didn’t stay in Hope Falls. That town is their whole world in a way. They feel like everything that’s important happens there, so there’s no use going anywhere else.”

Ares goes tense at that, but he doesn’t say anything or even change his expression. That’s probably for the best.

After another hour or so, we make a stop for lunch and to use the bathroom.

The roads are still pretty bad, and it’s been taking nearly twice as long to get anywhere as it would if things were clear. It’s nice to get out of the car and stretch my legs, but a lot of the contentment I was feeling before is starting to disappear.

For one thing, the diner we end up at is kind of gross. The table is sticky and the booths are scuffed. There’s a table of truckers in the back, laughing loudly and calling out things to the servers as they pass by.

We get our own booth, and I sit next to Tate, insisting on sitting on the outside so I’m not penned in by him.

The food is hot and good enough, but it’s the third burger I’ve had in as many days at this point, and I’m over it. Something about that, combined with everything else, starts to set me off.

All I can smell is grease and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke from the truckers and probably a bunch of other people in this diner. The truckers are too loud, and my feet are sticking to the floor. It’s sensory overload in the worst way, and there’s nothing I can do about any of it.

I put one hand on my leg, trying to ground myself in the feeling of the fabric of my jeans and the rhythm of tapping my fingers, but it’s hard when there’s so much going on.

Someone in the back drops a plate on the ground with a clatter, and I barely suppress a flinch at the noise. It’s so much fucking noise. And we still have so long to go before we get to Hope Falls. I’m going to have to get back in the car with Ares’ stony silence and Callan’s weird attitude and Tate’s questions. My fingers feel greasy, and no amount of wiping them on my napkin seems to get the grease off. The counting isn’t helping. I try to breathe normally, but it feels too fast. It feels like I’m not getting enough air, even though I know I am.

Fuck.

I can’t sit here like this.

I’m going to spiral out of control and everyone’s going to notice. I need to leave. I need to be out of this seat and away from this table and all the noise.

I push away from the table and out of the booth.

Tate looks at me, and I try to force myself to smile. “Bathroom,” I mumble.

If he responds to that, I don’t hear it. Instead, I rush to the back, grateful there’s a single occupancy bathroom that I can barricade myself in until I can get my shit together enough to go back out there.

18

BRYNN

I close the door, but before I can lock it, the handle turns and someone pushes the door open. I start to say that it’s occupied, but then Ares pushes his way in, locking the door behind him.

“Get out,” I snap, kind of shocked that he followed me in the first place. What the fuck does he want?

“What’s going on with you?” he asks. He folds his arms, looking at me like he can see through me.

“Why the fuck would you care?” I shoot back.

“Because you looked like you were freaking out at the table, and now you’re hiding in a bathroom. Obviously I want to know what the fuck is going on.”

“‘Obviously’.” I say it in a mocking tone. Suddenly I’m so done with this. With Ares and his bullshit, with this trip, with myself for not being able to hold my shit together long enough to get away from Ares and the rest of them. “Don’t even worry about it, Ares. My OCD is none of your fucking business! Nothing that happens with me is your business! If my ‘perfect’ life isn’t so perfect on the inside, that has nothing to do with you, so you can just fuck off. Okay? Fuck off! Go back to the table and leave me alone.”

Ares looks stunned. Whether it’s about the force of my reaction or what I said, it’s clear he wasn’t expecting that. He takes a step forward, reaching out like he’s going to touch my arm or something.

I wrench myself back. The last thing I want is his kindness right now. It’s embarrassing to think he cares now, when he sees me struggling, when he’s the one who refused to hear me out before. I don’t want his compassion when he hurt me so bad in the past.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss. “Just go away.”