Misty

You slam the door hard enough to shake the dash. Misty’s fingers stop mid-tap, then start again, faster. “Seriously?” she says, staring straight ahead. “That’s how you’re doing this?” You grip the wheel. “Doing what?” She lets out a short breath through her nose. “Acting like nothing happened.” A truck roars past. The car rattles. Her shoulder presses tighter into the door. “Say it,” she says. “Say what?” “What you’ve been thinking since Saturday. Don’t stall.” You swallow. “You embarrassed me. In front of my family.” Her head turns, slow. “Your mom came at me first.” “She asked you a question.” “She called me a mistake,” Misty snaps, leaning forward. “You just sat there.” You shake your head. “That’s not what she said.” “That’s what it was.” Her hand cuts through the air, sharp. “You always do this. You sand it down until it doesn’t sound as bad.” “And you blow it up until it’s a crisis.” “Because it is a crisis.” Her voice cracks, then hardens. “I don’t feel like I’m on your side. I feel like I’m… on trial.” Silence hits. The GPS chirps. You miss the turn. “You missed it,” she says. “I know.” “Do you?” She laughs once, dry. “Because you miss everything else.” You take the next exit too fast. The tires hum louder. Misty grabs the handle above the door. “Slow down,” she says, quieter. “I’m still in the car.” You ease off, but your hands stay tight. “I keep waiting for you to pick me,” she says, staring at the windshield. “Just once. Even when it’s uncomfortable.” You don’t answer. The driveway comes up sooner than it should. You pull in. Engine off. She unbuckles, opens the door, then stops. “You don’t even hear it when I’m done,” she says, and steps out.