This is a follow-up to my flash-fiction piece from last week. Another one written in first person. Not sure if I’m going anywhere with this story, but time will tell.

I glanced at the man sitting beside me in my car. He was here. Now. And she wasn’t with him.

Why had he come? I didn’t ask him too many questions at the bar, but I knew sooner or later I needed answers. And I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear what he had to say without opening up to him completely.

He told me he had to get away from Somerset and needed a place to hide. But why here? And why now? Who was he hiding from? Her or someone else? And why had he come to me?

I should have said no. In spite of my reservations, I said yes.

I focused my attention on the winding country road back to the ranch. Okay, the house was large enough to accommodate several overnight guests. It wasn’t like I wouldn’t have my privacy. I would let him stay in the downstairs bedroom.

But I knew I still wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing he would be so close by. Allowing him back in my life again would only cause heartache. Could I bear it when he left and went back to her?

My eyes drifted to him once again, and I noticed his hands. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I knew some married men choose not to wear rings. Maybe she never gave him one. No, she would have made certain to do that. Doing so would “brand” him as hers.

I slowed the car and turned onto the long driveway, stopping in front of the house. When I turned off the engine, he turned to me and said, “We need to talk.”

This story was inspired by the daily word-prompt, Passenger.