14

VANESSA

The ride home is tortuously void of conversation. As soon as we get in the truck, Cal cranks the stereo so loud that I can barely hear myself think. I elect to give him time to cool down, nibbling my lip nervously while I try to think of something, anything to say to alleviate the tension hanging thick in the cab of the truck. I come up empty, so I just stare out the windshield, sliding him occasional side-eyed glances.

His clenched jaw twitches. His fingers flex and tighten around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. His throat bobs with every hard swallow, and his posture is so rigid that his muscles must be aching. Still, he says nothing.

My mind wanders, images of the gruesome scene in the band’s dressing room flashing through my brain.

Was it my fault?

Violence is never the answer, but then again, I was the first one to throw an elbow into someone’s gut. Maybe if I hadn’t, things wouldn’t have escalated the way they did. Maybe we could’ve laughed it off as a misu