My tears had turned into sobs and she glanced over.

“Don’t cry, Remy,” she said. “It’s okay! I didn’t die, obviously. It just really hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and cried harder, unsure if I was apologizing for crying or for not being there when she needed me. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s my fault.”

“What?” I whispered, breathless.

“I should never have left my room when he was like that. He kept pounding on the door, screaming he was going to break it down, and I was so scared. But then it stopped and he left and I thought it was over, that he’d sleep off the rage, or at least that I could sneak out sometime in the night. But he came back to the door an hour later, all apologetic and pleading. I’m sorry, Elise, I didn’t mean what I said. Pathetic and pitiful. He was out there crying and saying how sorry he was for everything. He said he wanted my forgiveness.” I couldn’t picture him like that, groveling. In my mind, he was an unrepentant monster, pure evil.

She sighed heavily, her grip on the steering wheel tight. I glanced out at the road and realized she was speeding up. The lights flew by us, the trees blurring into one dark wall. It’d rained a couple days ago and the top was up, shaking from the violent wind. I put a hand against the window as if to brace myself for impact.

“He kept leaving and coming back to beg for my forgiveness, and finally I caved and opened the door.” She shook her head like she was disappointed in herself. “I was an idiot.”

“I’m so sorry.” It was all I could say. She’d never told me the whole story and I’d never asked, not wanting to make her talk about it, relive it. But in that moment, I realized I was really motivated by a selfish desire to not have to hear her tell me. I wasn’t sparing her, I was sparing myself. And now I forced myself to listen to every awful word.

“You know that lie my dad liked to tell me, about how it hurt him more than it hurt me? How he hit me out of love?” She scoffed. “He didn’t even bother that night. Didn’t pretend. There was just this raw anger. Half the things he screamed at me didn’t even make sense! It was my fault. I should’ve known better.”

Her voice was like the wind outside, a howl growing in force. We were still going faster, the needle on the speedometer inching toward ninety. I was frozen, afraid of cutting her off.

“I should’ve waited for him to break the door down.” Angry with herself, she sobbed and raged, slamming the heel of her palm against the wheel. “I should’ve just waited.”

“What do you mean, waited for him to break down the door?” I asked, confused.

Tears streaming down her face, Elise went back to gripping the wheel tightly. I looked out ahead of us at the open road and it felt like we were hurtling forward impossibly fast.