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I turn off the light and lie there with the phone on my chest, and I don’t send her anything.

Not yet.

I send it at seven-ten on Wednesday morning, before I can think about it again.

Me: I’m leaving at 4:30.

The dots come up almost immediately. She’s awake.

Tessa: Okay?

Me: You’re coming with me.

I read it after it’s already sent, and I close my eyes.

Every single thing I told myself not to do last night, in one sentence. I had all night. I deleted four versions. And the second I actually had to put words in front of her, out came my father.

Tessa: No, I’m not.

My jaw clenches. I hear my teeth grind. I knew it was coming before she typed it. I deserve it.

I sit up in bed. Kennebeck’s still asleep across the room. The window’s open. It’s freezing, but I’m tired of smelling his girlfriend’s perfume in here.

I hold the phone in both hands and make myself slow down.

Two months ago, I’d have pushed. I’d have told her she was coming whether she liked it or not and dared her to stop me. I’d have made it about winning.

I don’t want to win this. I don’t know what I want. But it isn’t that.

Me: I’m driving there anyway.

Tessa: So?

Me: It’s fifteen minutes out of my way.

Nothing. No dots. Nothing.

I type the next one and look at it for a long time before I send it.

Me: I’m not paying for anything.

The dots come up.

Tessa: What?

Me: You’re not costing me anything. I already have a car. I already have gas. I already have an empty seat.

Nothing again. I can picture her three doors down, sitting up in bed in that cream sweater, reading it with her jaw tight, trying to find the trick in it. Looking for where I’m going to take something.

And then I type the hardest thing I’ve ever typed to anybody.

Me: You can say no.

I send it before I can delete it.

And I sit there with the phone in my hand. It feels like I just set myself on fire. The open window doesn’t feel cold anymore. I’ve never once told Tessa Canten she was allowed to say no to me.

She doesn’t answer.