"Zara!"
I lost it as my whole body seemed to shake. I hardly bothered to keep the front wheels pointing in my own lane as I leaned into the back seat and pulled Zara around.
"No," I said, pointing a finger at her. "You listen to me. You sit like that and do not move."
"Why?" Zara protested, already stubbornly trying to turn back around.
I checked the road just long enough to make sure that we weren't going to crash and then grabbed her again.
"Why?" she whined again.
"Because it's dangerous, Zara! You could get hurt!"
I wasn't certain about many things in life, especially these days, but I was certain of one thing: that man was nothing but pain. There was no way in hell I was letting him anywhere near my daughter. I'd do everything in my power to make sure that she never again laid eyes on him, let alone knew his name, knew who he was. I would protect her at all costs, even if that meant getting fired from the best job I'd ever had. Even if it meant sleepless nights to take extra shifts at the gas station. Even if it meant I never got to see my daughter.
At least he wouldn't either.
"I don't want you to get hurt, Zara," I heard myself saying and realised I'd been repeating it over and over. "I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you to get hurt."
It was then that I saw her wide, confused, frightened eyes searching for mine in the rearview mirror. I was scaring her, I realised with a pang in my chest. That wasn't what I wanted. That was never what I wanted. I'd lost control. I'd let her see my emotions, raw and vulnerable and scared; that wasn't responsible. I wasn't being responsible, breaking down like that in front of my young daughter. I forced a shaky exhale and attempted to return a steadiness to my voice even though my heart still hammered painfully in my chest.
"If we crash…" I tried to explain calmly, non-emotionally, plainly, "if we were to crash, you can't be looking backwards like that. If…if we crash, Zara. You can't. You just can't."
She frowned, eyes once more glancing toward the airport, which was disappearing behind us. She glanced back up at me as I flipped on my turn signal to take the exit toward Denver, wanting, needing distance, more distance, as much distance as I could manage.
"Mom, why would we crash?"
Zara's voice from the back seat was quiet, small, uncertain. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and forced my eyes to focus on the dotted white lines flying past.
"Mom?"
"Z, baby, you don't always get to choose when you crash or not," I said distantly.
The tall, snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains disappeared, replaced with low hills shining like emeralds as the sun dipped behind them. My thundering heart became the pounding of a drum, the pounding of feet. His arms were around me, his palms searing through the thin cotton of my blouse, his fingers branding the small of my back, my wrists, my neck. His lips were on my ankles, on the bracelets I still stupidly kept in the bottom drawer of my dresser. His breath was in my ear, ragged and desperate, as he came inside me in that mountain cabin.
I hadn't asked him to interrupt me as I tried to break into that linen closet in that hotel. I hadn't asked him to look at me the way he did, like he saw me, like he saw me. I hadn't asked him to stop, to see me, to crash into me.
I had been fine, fine as a ghost. People passed by me, through me. I moved through the world unseen, unnoticed, invisible. I was fine. I never asked for more. I never asked for someone to make me feel real, feel solid. Solid enough to hold, to kiss, to become one with in the dark.
I could have gone my whole life without crashing; I could have…I could have.
As I drove I felt tears start to gather in my eyes, felt that prick of tears that had become so foreign to me. I cried that night, in the ruins of Zara's bassinette. I cried till I could cry no more. I cried till the tears dried on my cheeks, on the front of my shirt. I cried till I fell asleep.
But when I awoke I told myself I was done crying. I needed to be strong for my daughter. Or at the very least, I needed to make her think I was strong. Tears became a luxury I couldn't afford, just as superfluous and irresponsible as new designer clothes or diamonds or any makeup besides the cheapest brand at the discount chemist. It was as simple as that.
So the swell of tears caught me by surprise in the car. Then it made me mad.
Zara was in the back seat and she was more than likely still watching. I didn't dare check; I wasn't sure I could maintain my composure if I looked back into her green eyes, a dead ringer for the eyes I just left at the airport. I could only assume that she was watching me, still confused over our abrupt departure.
That meant I needed to get control over myself. That meant I needed to grab hold of my emotions and shove them back, back, back, drown them in the dark waters of my mind. I needed to grab hold of my pain, my tender, aching pain, and grind it beneath the heel of my palm. I needed to wrangle my hurt, tightening the rope tighter and tighter till I choked it out and it
