I stare down at the crimson scarf crumpled in an unassuming heap in between me and the passenger seat.
It’s her favorite. She wouldn’t leave it behind on purpose. Especially not with me.
The longer I stare at it the more pissed off I get. I don’t need another piece of her lingering. I don’t need another reason to think about her. The smell of apple shampoo, mixed with something spicy like cinnamon and vanilla, clings to air inside the cabin of my truck as if she’s still sitting silently beside me. This smell is permanently burned in my memory; has been since the first day.
Now, the scarf…something tangible left behind…
I can see it draped protectively around her neck and shoulders, as she twists nervously at the fringe. It’s her armor. It makes her feel safe.
And I want to be that scarf. I’ve never wanted something so damn bad.
Get a grip, Morrison.
How the hell did you let her crawl under your skin so fast?
Grasping angrily at the red material, I reach over and start to shove it in the glove compartment. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
After several minutes I finally force myself out of the truck, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. I glare down at the tangle of crimson still clutched in my fist.
She’s going to change everything.
She already has…