“Anywhere. Just drive.” He reached over and took my hand into his. As I turned right and headed out of town, Weston rested his head against the seat. “Everyone was apologizing to me today. It felt so weird, because I don’t feel like I lost anything. I should feel different. Is it weird that I don’t?”

“I don’t know how to feel either. I try not to think about it.”

“Maybe it’s not acceptable, or maybe others wouldn’t understand.” He turned to look at me. “But we get it. We can talk about it to each other.”

I waited for him to expand on that thought. The Erins couldn’t make good on Alder’s promise to make me miserable, now, and that was a good thing. But I didn’t want to be the first one to say something so appalling out loud.

He looked up. “I’m sorry they were hurt. I’m sorry they lost their lives, but I feel sort of . . . relieved. It feels like such an asshole thing to say, but it’s the truth. Don’t you feel the same?”

“I’m not glad they’re dead.” I took a deep breath. “But it’s a relief to know they can’t torture me anymore.”

Weston squeezed my hand, and after that. We didn’t talk much. I drove until the gas light lit up on the dash. By then we were an hour south, in Stillwater. Weston directed me to the nearest gas station and showed me how to pump the gas.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“A little.”

“Okay, I’ll grab some chips and a pizza pocket or something. Mountain Dew?”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He hung the nozzle on the pump, and then ran into the station. I stood there, not sure which door to get in. When Weston returned, he watched me, puzzled.

“What are you doing, babe?”

My purpose, where I was, and even my own name were lost on me, because of what had just come out of his mouth. I’d heard other couples call each other sweet terms of endearment, and I heard mothers say such things to their children, but no one had called me anything but my name, and a few colorful slurs. I’d always imagined what it would feel like, to hear someone who loved me call me something simple and sweet, and it just came out of Weston Gates’s mouth.

I tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“Do you want me to drive?” he asked. When I didn’t respond, he took another step toward me. “Are you okay?”

I took a few quick strides and jumped on him, wrapping my legs around his middle and my arms around his neck, kissing him hard.

He kissed me back. The sacks he was holding crackled as he hurried to wrap his arms around me.

When I pulled away, he smiled. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know. I just needed to.”

“You should follow your gut more often,” he said, kissing me again.

He asked me to drive, and five hours after I left work, I pulled into Gina’s driveway. There were two police cars and another car, dark blue with the Oklahoma Department of Human Services logo on the driver and passenger doors.