Ruth Tracy understood loss.
She understood lashing out in grief, that sometimes when you felt like the world was against you, you got fed up with it. You had to push back, to fight against the cards you had been dealt. She understood this better than most people, she felt. That didn't mean being on the receiving end of it didn't hurt. That she hadn't wept when Scott had snapped at her, launching the small table across the room. That she hadn't been crushed when he told her in no uncertain terms that he and Virgil were sick of her hovering like some unwanted fly.
Once the words were said, a bitter, angry silence fell.
Scott said nothing, sucking in air through gritted teeth, trembling with rage, while Virgil, propped up by pillows, gazed out the window like nothing was happening. She had looked to him, pleading, but he had simply told her to leave, never moving his gaze to her. So now she sat here in this cold airport, waiting for someone to come pick her up, sniffling like some teenager after her first breakup. She felt stupid and foolish, hurt and betrayed.
So she cried.
