“Of course, I’ll help,” she says, sounding insulted. “I just need to pee first. Are there supplies here?” Something warm flares in my chest until it becomes almost painful to look at her. And that’s it. Her standing there in snow-soaked jeans pushing all her anger and hurt to the side to help me. Her with her hands on her hips and her smudged mascara from rubbing her eyes in the car.
