The drive from the warehouse is quiet, except for the low hum of the engine and the faint static of the radio. My hands are still tense on the steering wheel, the kind of tension that doesn't come from just one conversation—it comes from weeks, months, maybe even years of holding things back. Of watching Marie drift a little further away, piece by piece.
Israel's next to me, sprawled in the passenger seat like he owns the world. He's scrolling through his phone, thumb moving fast, chewing gum like he's counting down to chaos.
"You look like someone just told you your car's been stolen," he mutters, glancing over. "Or like you saw your ex with a better guy."
I shoot him a look. "You done?"
"Almost. One more thing." He smirks. "There's a concert tonight."
I don't respond. Not interested.
He keeps going. "One of your favorites, too. Remixed sets. Old-school and new mashups. DJ Kash, that underground guy from New York, you were obsessed with during your first year in college."
