In six years together, we had experienced our share of reckless moments. The car had always been one of our favorite places to feel close. But this time, as her face moved closer to mine, the memory of her kissing Hudson in the afternoon sunlight flashed through my mind, sharp enough to make my vision spin.
A wave of nausea surged through me.
I shoved her away with force, flung the car door open, and crouched on the roadside, retching with no dignity at all.
My stomach twisted violently, but nothing came up, only the burn of sour bile rising in my throat.
Arianne stepped out of the car as well. Her expression shifted from pale green to bone white as she stared at me like she could not comprehend what she was seeing.
Under the streetlamp, her face wavered between anger, embarrassment, and a faint, almost hidden flicker of hurt.
But I no longer cared.
Bracing my hands on my knees, I pushed myself upright and wiped my mouth.
“Arianne, did you see that? This is how I feel about you now. We are—"
Before I could finish the sentence, she slammed the car door and sped away without a single word.
That night, Arianne, whose social media had been a barren wasteland for years, suddenly posted an update.