He shoved his hand into the narrow space between the driver seat and the center console, his knuckles scraping against the plastic.
“Julian, calm down, it is just a phone,” I said, touching his shoulder.
He pulled his hand back with a sudden jerk, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.
“It is not just a phone, Daniella,” he snapped.
The sudden noise filled the small car, leaving a heavy silence between us.
Julian had not raised his voice to me in three years, not since the summer we lost our garden to the groundhogs and he had spent two days in the sun trying to rebuild the fence.
He stared straight through the wet windshield, his chest rising and falling beneath his damp shirt.
“I am sorry,” he said after a moment, his voice returning to its usual quiet tone. “I just have a lot of important files on that device.”
