Veins bulged on his forehead. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
I froze, feigning ignorance. "What's wrong?"
His roar nearly shattered my eardrums.
"I told you I wouldn't do it again! Why are you so relentless?" He turned on me, eyes wild. "What did Lola do wrong? She just made me feel good—do you have to be this vicious?"
He didn't waste another second. He unbuckled, scrambled out, and sprinted toward the bridge's edge.
In the distance, Lola swayed in the wind, looking ready to plummet at any moment. Pitiful. Fragile. A perfect performance.
"Lola! Come down—don't do this!"
His eyes were rimmed red, and for the first time in years, I saw a tear slide down his cheek.
I sat there, stunned.
I remembered accompanying him to a high-stakes negotiation. We were intercepted by kidnappers. To protect him, I took a knife to the gut. As I lay in the ambulance, bleeding out and hovering on the brink of death, his eyes had been red too.
But he never shed a single tear for me.
I clenched my hands, bile rising. The bitterness was suffocating.
He was still running, his voice carrying as he coaxed Lola.
Then the car lurched.