Page 227 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Wayne nods and reaches for his door. “I’ll⁠—”

“I’m okay,” she says quickly, her voice softening when she sees his face. “Really. I’m okay.”

He studies her for a beat, then lets it go. “All right.”

She gets out and heads inside. Fletcher follows Wayne toward the pumps, the two of them falling into some low conversation about mileage and whether we should switch drivers for the last leg.

I stay where I am.

Not because I need the rest.

Because something’s been building in my chest all day, and I know it’s not going to get less true if I sit on it much longer.

When June comes back out, she’s carrying four coffees and looking a little more herself than she did this morning. A little less haunted around the eyes.

She spots me leaning against the truck and lifts one of the cups. “Peace offering?”

I take it from her. “For what?”

“For existing near bedlam.”

“Darlin’, that’s just called Tuesday.”

She smiles and starts to hand the other cups off toward the front, but Wayne and Fletcher are still around the far side of the pumps. She follows my glance and pauses before she sets the remaining coffees carefully inside the car.

“Looks like it’s just us for a second.”

“Dangerous,” I say.

She laughs under her breath.

For a minute, we just stand there with our coffees, watching trucks roll in and out, the whole world moving because it doesn’t know something important just ended for us.

June blows across the top of her cup. “I feel weird.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She leans lightly against the wall beside me. “Good weird. Mostly. Like I thought I’d feel victorious or vindicated or something. But mostly I just feel…” She searches for it. “Tired. Relieved. A little stupid for carrying it so long.”

I shake my head. “That last part’s not fair.”

She glances at me. “No?”

“No.” I take a sip of coffee and make a face because it’s terrible. “You carried it because nobody gave you the truth. Hard to set something down when everyone keeps telling you it’s yours.”

She goes quiet at that, eyes dropping to the coffee lid in her hands.

“Maybe,” she says after a moment. “It still feels strange to know I wasn’t crazy.”

“You weren’t.”

“I know.” She smiles faintly. “I’m getting told that a lot lately.”

“Could stand to hear it a few hundred more times, probably.”

She bumps her shoulder lightly against mine. “Possibly.”

The contact is small.