As we drove, the wind hit my face, but it couldn't reach me.
It slid past skin and hair like I wasn't even there. I sat curled up, knees hugged to my chest in the passenger seat of a stranger's red Mustang, but I might as well have been back in that boardroom, still frozen.
"Consider your ass fired, Clara! Pack up. You're done!"
The words hit again, loud and sharp in my memory. I'd been clicking through the damn slides, trying to keep my cool while the client stormed out. Everyone else had already given up—faces blank, phones out, like my public failure was just background noise.
And me? Still trying to fix it. Still thinking I could pull something together.
A single tear slid down my cheek now, but it dried before it could fall.
Fucking southern coast. Even the weather doesn't let me cry properly.
Beside me, Mr. Perfect kept his eyes on the road. The wind whipped through his hair, tousling it in a way that seemed annoyingly intentional. His shirt fluttered at the collar, catching sunlight like it was in on the joke. He tapped the steering wheel with one hand in a rhythm that didn't match the music—something off-beat, like he wasn't really listening.
The sun lit up his face, casting long shadows on his jawline, and for a moment, I wanted to punch whoever was in charge of lighting.
Yeah, go ahead, golden boy. Shine while I unravel next to you.
Then I noticed it.
A ring.
Gold. Simple. On his left hand.
Wait. That hadn't been there before... had it? Or had I just missed it while I was too busy checking for serial killer vibes and rating his beard?
My gaze lingered. My mood dipped.
Sarcasm snapped back into place like a shield.
"So," I said, sharp as glass, "what's a sworn guy like you doing out here picking up broken girls on backroads? Side gig? Or are you just collecting sob stories for fun?"
He glanced over, calm. No flinch, no frown. Just followed my eyes to his ring.
"Oh, this?" he said, lifting his hand. "Yeah, I figured you noticed earlier. You scanned me pretty thoroughly back there."
Finally, he speaks.
God, why are men so emotionally blocked? It's like unlocking a vault every time you ask a direct question.
Before I could throw another jab, he added:
"It's been ten years. I'm going to see her today."
Something inside me stalled. My snark stopped mid-breath.
"Oh," I said. "Didn't think men like you got divorced." I paused, then twisted the knife. "Let me guess—got tired of the same woman, back to being the playboy?"
Yeah. That came out harsher than I intended. Or maybe not.
He gave a small, tired laugh. Not amused. Not angry. Just... hollow.
"Today's her death anniversary."
My stomach dropped. My grip on my knees slipped. I stared out the window like it could hide me.
Oh.
Great, Clara.
You fucked up again.
"I... I'm so sorry," I said. Quiet. Too quiet. I could barely hear myself over the sound of me mentally shoving my foot down my throat.
"It's alright," he replied. "Anyone might assume. My phrasing didn't help."
He didn't sound like he was just being nice. He sounded like someone who'd had that conversation before—too many times.
I swallowed hard, words tangled in my chest. Silence filled the car again, and I let it.
He said. "Everyone has their bruises. Regrets. It's just whether you keep licking them or learn to live with them."
He paused, glancing down at the ring.
His voice wasn't trying to be deep. It just was.
My legs slowly slid off the seat, feet back on the floor like I was returning back.
He didn't look at me. Didn't press for a response. That somehow made it worse. Or better. I couldn't tell.
And then, something rose up in me—a realisation, maybe. Or a truth I didn't want to look at.
Everyone has regrets.
Maybe mine just aren't big enough to keep crying over.