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This work could have adult content. If you continue, you have agreed that you are willing to see such content.
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Summary
“I can’t ask you to do this.”
Ace is sitting behind Florence’s steering wheel, hands at 10 and 2 and gripping it so tightly they look like topographical maps — tendons as mountain ridges, veins winding like mighty rivers. His face is lit only by the lamppost on the curb; it leaves half of his profile cloaked in deep black, the other painted a bloodless, muted yellow.
For the first time, Nancy can look at him and see that he’s older than her. The extra years are drawn in the lines framing his full lips, in the purplish shadows haunting his hollow eyes.
“You’re not asking,” she says, clicking the seatbelt around her waist and staring straight ahead, not allowing herself a final glimpse of her house, squatting familiar and forsaken in the rearview mirror. “Let’s go.”