He let go of the steering wheel and let his hands fall to his knees, his knuckles turning white in the dim cabin light. He stared at the green silk that gathered around my waist, his mouth a thin, hard line.
“You really wore that,” he said.
“We talked about this at home, Damon. The kids are waiting inside.”
“They’re waiting for their mother,” he said. “Not for whatever it is.”
I ran my hands over my thighs, trying to straighten the silk. The fabric was cool and thin under my hands, a sharp contrast to the heavy winter coats we usually wore in mid-October.
“It’s just a dress for my birthday,” I said quietly. “I wanted to look nice.”
He reached for the keys in the ignition, his thumb still pressed against the metal casing of the key fob. He didn’t turn them, but the menace in his gesture was clear.
