There’s a low whistle from someone else in the background. "He's been looking for an excuse with her for months. This'd hand it to him. She’ll be writing traffic tickets again before she knows what happened." A chuckle. “Then whose work will I take credit for? Not you lazy fuckers.”
My heart breaks for her. I work alone, but I can appreciate how betrayed she must feel, hearing them speak so disparagingly about her. I keep my eyes on her, waiting for her to fall apart, but instead, she doesn't flinch and doesn't react.
She just keeps her hand stretched toward the radio, eyes forward, still as a statue. Like turning it off is the only thing in the world that matters to her now.
Feeling like shit for forcing her to hear the entire thing, I place the radio into her hand silently.
Much as I want to stick up for her, if I press the talk button, my presence on the radio becomes proof that what they're laughing about isn't merely speculation. Whatever blowback she takes, I'll have caused it through my selfish desire to protect her.
When what will really protect her is making sure they don’t find out.
And it hits me hard then, that what she said in the hotel room about her not being able to date me really might not have been personal. It was just reality. If she has to deal with this shit regularly, she could accurately predict what would happen if news got out.
All she did was hug me, and they’re already going to town on her.
Her fingers close around the hard, black plastic. She doesn't speak into it, just rolls the volume off and lets it fall into the centre console, the dull sound of it almost lost under the rain on the roof. She wipes her cheek with the back of her wrist before pulling away again slowly, both hands back on the wheel now.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. “I didn’t realise…”
With a rapid shake of her head, she whispers, "Don't. Please. Not now." A pause. “I just can’t.”
So, I don't.
Instead, I sit in the passenger seat with my hands in my lap and watch the rivulets of water track down the windscreen while she drives the short distance to my truck.
The wipers beat back and forth. Lisa breathes in and out. Neither of us says a word for the rest of the drive.
She pulls up alongside my vehicle at the end of the logging road and puts the car in park. The downpour has eased slightly, but the windscreen is still streaked with it, the headlights catching every drop. For a beat, neither of us moves.
“Thanks for the lift,” I mumble awkwardly when she continues to stare ahead into the nothingness of the dark forest.
When she doesn’t respond, I push the door open and step out into the cold, the breeze hitting the heated skin on the back of my neck. I round the front of her car and stop at the driver's side window, expecting her to roll it down.
Instead, she shoulders her own door open and steps out into the rain to meet me, tilting her face up to the sky. She shouldn't be out here. It’s freezing cold, and she’s already exhausted.
“What are you doing? You’re going to get sick,” I warn, trying to herd her back to the car.
She ignores me completely.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I ask. Again, my question remains unanswered.
It's coming down hard enough that her hair is immediately wet, soaked strands plastered to her cheeks. Yet standing in front of me, with her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket and eyes closed, she looks beautiful.
I ache to touch her, to pull her into another hug, to somehow replicate the joyous look on her face when she grabbed my hand and squeezed it, but the radio chatter rained down on both our good moods.
“I don’t have any family left,” she says quietly. “My career is all I have. But no matter what I do, none of them takes me seriously simply because I don'tneedto be there to pay a mortgage.”
I sigh and watch the rain wash away her tears. Reaching out to run my fingers along a loose strand of red hair, I give her a sad smile.
“I didn't get it before.” I stare at her full lips, her long eyelashes resting on her damp cheeks. "I really am sorry, Red. I don’t want to cause you any trouble."
She gives me a small, tight nod, and the subtle movement undoes me in a way the chatter itself didn't. I was mad before, now, I physically ache inside, feeling a ghost of her pain and unable to do anything to fix it.
I close the distance between us and cup her face in both hands.
She inhales sharply, eyes finally opening and locking onto mine, but doesn't pull back. I can't fight her battles with her colleagues for her.
"You're probably right," I say quietly, letting my thumb brush over a droplet of water that beads on her plump bottom lip. "It's for the best."