The rest of the night was mostly awkward conversations that followed the same equation. Sure, the awkwardness wasn’t ideal, but at least it followed a pattern.

“Hey there! My name’s Haven Collins! Relative of Clara Erikson Holt.” 

“Ah, good old Clara! What brings you here, m’lady?”

“Just recently at my aunt’s, a horse was born with a damaged foot, and coming to her ranch August 25th for a fancy dinner and fundraiser to heal the filly’s foot would mean a lot to the community and save a horse's life!”

And so forth. Thus far, thankfully, no one had denied the offer, and I was reeling in donors like fish in the lake. God, even my metaphors have become country-like. It was repetitive, of course, but at least it kept my mind off… things.

The clock finally ticked over to midnight. My throat was raw, my palms were sore from shaking hands, and the denim jacket was hot, but I didn't dare take it off. I was walking toward the parking area, hoping a taxi existed in this part of Arizona, when I heard the low, familiar rumble of an old truck behind me.

I didn't turn around. I just kept walking faster, my heels sinking awkwardly into the gravel.

The engine pulled alongside me, and the window rolled down. Weston was behind the wheel, his face cast in shadow, the brim of his cowboy hat pulled low. The music from the barn was a faint pulse in the distance.

"Get in, Haven," he said. His voice was flat, containing no warmth, but also no anger. It was simply a fact.

"I can find my own ride," I replied, refusing to meet his eyes.

"No, you can't," he countered instantly. "And you know it. It's an hour drive, and I’m not letting you walk the highway in a cocktail dress. Clara would absolutely sink into a panic."

“And why would I care about that?” I counter, but I knew he was right. And I was exhausted. I wrenched open the passenger door, slid onto the worn leather seat, and slammed the door shut. The dark green fabric of the dress bunched beneath the protective jacket.

The tension was immediate and absolute, heavier than the silence in the storage room. He pulled the truck out onto the deserted road, and the only sound was the low drone of the engine and the subtle hum on the radio—quiet, mournful, and perfect for his mood.

I focused on the passing darkness, trying to dissect the night. I had secured over a dozen confirmed donors for Bug. Logistically, the night was a success. Emotionally, it was a catastrophe. I had insulted my aunt's friends and coworkers, thrown a tantrum, and shown a man I barely knew a vulnerability I’d guarded for nearly twenty years.

Then I felt his gaze. He wasn't looking at the road. He was looking at me, or rather, at the denim jacket that covered my back.

"Why the jacket?" he finally asked, his voice low and deliberate.

I gripped the seatbelt. "I was cold."

He scoffed softly, a dry, dismissive sound that was a signature Weston move. "You were sweating in a closet. Cut it out, Haven."

I turned, fury bubbling up to override the fear. "You think you're so smart, don't you? You think just because you saw me having a moment, you know everything. You don't."

He slowed the truck slightly, giving me his full, piercing attention. "I saw a woman who looked like she was choking on smoke. I saw a tear in that ridiculous dress right next to a piece of metal. And I saw—" He stopped himself, his jaw clenching. He wouldn't say the word scar.

"You saw nothing," I whispered, the shame of my exposed secret making my skin crawl. "You saw me a little overwhelmed. That's all. Now just drive and cut out the interrogator game."

Weston didn't start driving. He rested his forearm on the steering wheel, but his face was still on my, still trying to pick me apart. God, we were so similar on the outside. We just had to figure each other out. "I know grief, Haven. You weren’t sad, you were scared. Why? What are you scared of?"

The accusation was so blunt, I just looked at him for a while. Looked into his dark blue eyes, and wondered what secrets lay beneath its deep waves. “How would you know my emotions? We barely even know each other. I’ve only been here for 2 weeks, so—”

He sighed loudly, turning his head to the road and backing up. “Just answer the question. Stop deflecting and trying to turn it on me.”

His challenge hung in the air: Just answer the question. Stop deflecting and trying to turn it on me.

He was right. I had spent my entire adult life turning things back on Ray, on Demsi, on the camera, on the audience—anything to avoid the cold, terrifying fact of my own fragility. But in the quiet, dark confines of his truck, with his eyes drilling into my shame, the tactic had finally failed.

“Fire. I hate it.” I managed before my throat closed up, but I cleared my throat. “And you don’t need to know more unless you share something. If you want information, I’m not giving it out for free.”

He sat, silent for a moment, trying to solve my answer, I supposed. “I’ve been afraid of cats since I was seven.”

A genuine laugh escaped my scratchy throat. Now, that’s how you lighten the mood. “The first day I came here, I woke up to a rooster in my bed. Absolutely terrified of them now.”

The corner of his lip turned upward. “I’ve never liked the color black.”

“No black cats then?” I tipped my head to him, and he shook his vigorously.

“Absolutely not.” He fixed his posture. “But not because of superstitions.”

“I’ve always hated orange.”

The car swerved at that. “What?” He eyed me, genuinely confused. “It’s the color of the sunset, how could you hate that?” 

I shrugged. “I’m used to yellow sunsets. LA wasn’t like the sunsets here, though.”

Weston was silent again after that. “LA…was that where…”

I realized he was trying to piece my life together in the entirely wrong order. “Oh, no. I left Los Angeles for an entirely different reason.” I tried to laugh Ray off, but the loss of that life was just too new for that, my laugh came out more like a sob.

I didn’t know if it was too dark to see things, or my glossy eyes, or the alcoholic punch that was getting to my head, but I swore for a short moment, Weston’s eyes were soft. 

“God, not you too.” My voice cracked, and I shook my feelings away. “I can’t stand pity.” 

I watched his face, begging it to stop looking soft. Pity. I could handle hate. I could handle insults. Pity meant he saw me as a broken project, and I was nobody's project.

I was supposed to be past this. I had built a career on being perfectly controlled; I had compartmentalized the attic, the smoke, the screaming. I had told myself the fire was a problem I had filed, archived, and moved beyond. Now I’d let up too much of myself to him. Weston now was a proud holder of the secret I’d kept from every single person I’d ever known. 

 Weston had the data. He had the truth of my weakness, and I was sitting here, waiting for the inevitable moment he would use it. God, and I know what’s coming.

“It’s not pity,” Weston said a while later, and I had to think back to our last conversation to understand. “It’s…”

“Charity? Sorrow? You can rewrite it a million times, but it doesn’t change its meaning.” I sighed and pulled open the car door as his truck came to a stop. I stepped out, but looked up at him. I felt so small, and as I spoke, I seemed to shrink. 

“Please…” I breathed in, then let it out quaveringly. “Don’t tell them.”

He blinked at me, but I knew he understood. “Sure.”

I started to shut the door, but hesitated. “Night, Weston.”

“Night.” 

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