Elise is so proud of her suffering. I used to believe her when she said our battle scars made us strong because all I ever felt was weak. But that was before Jack died in my arms, before I knew what real loss was. What it meant to be truly powerless.

We found it romantic, being the tragic heroines of our own stories. But the cost to being a tragic hero was always going to be the ending. Romeo and Juliet with their poison and knife, Gatsby by his pool, Bonnie and Clyde in a shoot-out.

The ride is always grand—the rush at the beginning, the ever-mounting obstacles, and finally, the fait accompli, the heartbreaking conclusion.

We are careening toward it now and maybe it’s too late already, but I want out—out of the car, out of this story.

“Look, I know I fucked up, okay?” she says. “I know that. But I’m different now. I’m better, I’ll be better.”

“Are you even listening to me?” I say.

“Yes! Are you listening to me?” she asks, and I shake my head.

“You’re fucking unbelievable, you know that?” I say. “You’re such a liar. You say we’re just going for a drive and then you kidnap me. You never had any intention of taking me home, did you? You say you love me but you’re so afraid of losing me that you murdered Jack. This is so fucked up. Can’t you see how terrible we are for each other? We’re not good for each other, can’t you see that?”

Her chin trembles and she starts to cry.

“And saying you’re different doesn’t actually make you different. I don’t want to go anywhere with you! I don’t ever want to see or talk to you again.”

“No, Remy, please,” she says. “I am different. Killing Jack was a mistake—”

“A mistake?”

“Please, Remy.” She’s sobbing now, groveling, but I don’t want to hear it.

“You’re different now, less than a week after you murdered Jack? What, are you going to pinky swear not to shoot the next person I love?”

She cries harder. “Listen,” she says between sobs. “Listen to me. I know what you did in your police interview. I know you tried to protect me. I know you still care about me, or you wouldn’t have done it.”

She’s not wrong, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. “Take me home, Elise. I want to go home.” I know my voice is cold, but I can’t crack, can’t show any weakness. Yes, I still care about her, but it’s not enough, not after everything.

“Fine!” she says. “You want to go home, I’ll take you home.” She swerves three lanes over to pull off the nearest exit, barely missing the metal guardrails. We almost crash into another car but Elise avoids it just in time.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, my hands against the dash bracing for impact.

She turns right, and without slowing down, she makes a wide U-turn and then we are swerving out of control, the tires skidding and then hydroplaning on the wet road.