EIGHT YEARS EARLIER
BONNIE
I closethe tailgate of my dad’s pickup and walk around to the front again as I see my mom come out of the trailer home’s front door. Shit, is she already crying?
“Mom. Really?” I ask when I see the paper bag of what I’m assuming is her famous cranberry muffins.
“It’s just a snack,” she insists. “I didn’t want my little girl getting hungry at her new place. You can share them with your roommate—your new roommate who you’ll be spending all of your time with since you won’t be here anymore.”
I purse my lips as tears cloud her eyes. “Mom.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” she says, waving me off.
“It’s just an hour away,” I remind her. “I’ve literally spent two years longer at home than the rest of my class. I think it’s time.”
“Just because you’re leaving home doesn’t mean you stop being my little girl,” she says as she throws her arms around my neck.
I sigh into her embrace, letting her have this moment because I know she’s scared.
“Will you call me tonight, please?” she asks when she lets me go.
I chuckle at her. “I’m going to that concert tonight. Doubt I’ll hear my phone.”
Among other reasons.
“Oh, right. Half the reason you’re leaving for LA. Young Skeleton or whatever,” she says as if it’s nothing.
Young Skeleton. Ha.
“Young Decay, and they’re fucking amazing. These guys are going to do big things. I want to be there at their beginning,” I say about my favorite indie metal band.
“I don’t even know how you heard about them,” she says. “Bon, are you sure you’re okay to leave? I know these last two years have been hard. I don’t want you to do anything that you can’t handle.”
I avoid her gaze as I reply, “Mom, I’m fine.”
It’s a lie I’ve been perfecting, a lie that’s kept me putting one foot in front of the other, the alternative being a reality that I’m not ready to succumb to—even if it’s breathing down my neck.
Because behind my eyes, flashes of incoming headlights, a scream, and fire nearly blind me.
I blink, and suddenly, I’m eighteen and sitting in the driver’s seat of the old Bronco with my best friend, Kelsey, who’s in the seat at my side, her silky black hair billowing sideways toward the open window as she grins my way.
“I think you love me,” she says.
“What?” I laugh nervously. “What are you talking about?”
“I think you love me,” she repeats, straightening up. “I think you looove me,” she goes in a sing-song voice. “You want to touch me—”
“Oh my fucking god, Kels—”
She pokes at me, making me laugh as I switch gears.
“I think you want to keeeeeep me. You want to kisssss me—”
I grab her by the jaw and pull her across the seat, pressing my lips to hers as we cruise the stretch of straight road. Kelseysoftens at the embrace, even if it’s only for a couple of seconds, and when I pull back, I hardly bother looking left at the road again.
Because I’m mesmerized by her.
“What if I do?” I ask.
