“Just going to ignore me now?” he asks with a bite to his tone.
I pause for a second before returning to check another sidepocket. My lips stretch, the dry skin taut on the verge of cracking. “I need... my gloss.”
He groans dramatically. “Of course you do.”
“What do you have against lip gloss?”
“Nothing,” he barks.
If we are fighting about cosmetics, we’ve hit a new all-time low. We both need to rest and eat a meal that hasn’t been purchased from a vending machine before we lose our minds. It’s moments like these that I always say the things I regret the most.
And I really don’t want to apologize to him today.
I grab my gloss out of the zipper pocket and clumsily apply it. The tight pinching on my chapped skin stretches comfortably, and the grips of panic release from my chest. I have absolutely no idea why my dry lips are one of my triggers, but at least it’s easier to manage than my anger.
“Are you done primping? I want to get to the camper so I can pass out. What’s the name of the guy we’re meeting?”
Primping?I frown but once again take the high road.Be proud of me, Granny.
“Gary Snead is his name. He said he would be outside the station... somewhere. It doesn’t look like there’s much around here to begin with.”
The Amarillo bus station is a fraction of the size of the one in Denver. Surrounded by a fence, a long road loops around the main building, a hub for passengers to wait. Along the loop, multiple overhangs are marked for the different bus stops, including the one we disembarked with the Greyhound logo. Fumes of exhaust overpower the open lot, only growing stronger as a new bus squeals into the parking spot adjacent to us. It’s a slow and steady stream of buses. As one bus comes in, another one is heading out.
Outside the iron gates, new cookie-cutter houses are mid-construction, with a few graffitied housessprinkled in. The whole area appears to be getting a facelift to match the new station, but it still doesn’t stop me from tugging the strap of my backpack tighter and keeping a wary eye as I walk down the station sidewalk.
Home suddenly seems far away.
Tristen takes a step closer to me, and for once, I don’t mind his protective instincts.
“Is there a parking lot where we should be meeting him? I don’t see one.”
A middle-aged man stands outside the gate, holding up two pieces of paper taped together with my name scribbled across. He holds up a hand when he sees me, sending me a friendly wave.
“I guess that’s Gary over there.”
His jaw drops. “You don’t know?”
“He didn’t send me a mug shot if that’s what you’re asking.”
“This whole thing doesn’t feel safe. Stay close to me, okay?”
I bark a laugh at that.
“Calm down, Romeo.”
Tristen’s head whips toward me and a hint of pink flushes his cheeks and through his beard. “That’s not what I meant.”
A satisfied smirk pulls up one side of my mouth as he grumbles the rest of the walk out of the station and through the gate to where the man waits.
“Howdy, there. The name’s Gary, Gary Snead.” He shakes Tristen’s and my hand in a firm and almost painful grip as we introduce ourselves. “Welcome to Amarillo. Hope y’all had a good drive down.”
Both Tristen and I share an awkward glance before I clear my throat.
“It’s been . . . interesting. I’ll say that.”
I can sense Tristen’s eye roll without even looking at him.
“So, where’s the RV parked?” I ask, scanning the dirty streets.
