Wrong Number: My Sweetest Goodbye

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m with a detached, clinical gaze, as if assessing a minor crack in t

d heavy with martyrdom. "I'

to deal with before he could get back to more important things. I nodded

e passenger seat, my eyes landed on a small, glittery pink air freshener dangling from the rearvi

movements jerky and panicked. "It' s from Kandace. A jok

otone. The pain in my arm was a rising

ng at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Yo

nto the night, a small, pathetic act of defiance. She would have screamed at him,

nely curious. "It' s your car, Drake.

rring past. The pain was making me nauseous. "Can y

or five minutes in that suffocating silence before his phone chimed w

eaker. "Kandace?

I don' t feel well. I think the champagne we

t say a word to me either. He just executed a sha

g away from t

ed out a small first-aid kit. He tossed a tube

rner. She gets terrible migraines when she' s stressed. I' ll be ba

wait for my response. He was already out the door, jogging towar

egan to sputter, pumping hot, stale air into the small space. The city' s heat wave pressed in on t

at the edges. The pain w

w. I looked at the emergency glass b

s the loudest, most liberating sound I had ever heard. A car screeched to

ay? Do you need a ri

eyes. Not for Drake, not for my marriage, but fo

ed, my voice crack