"Were you high?" I ask what I think is a natural follow-up question.
He nods quickly, like he's miming a bobblehead. I try not to faint.
"It was my first time." He's watching me closely, evaluating my reaction to his candor. "I don't think I could've kicked people out if I wanted to. I was seeing shapes in the air."
I don't know what to say. "I've been high once," I admit. "But it made me really paranoid, and I hated it."
Travis huffs a laugh. "I can't picture you high."
I lick a swipe of cherry off the tip of my fork. "Me neither."
We end up eating too much pie. So much for taking a single bite of everything. Travis groans as he's fastening his seat belt.
"Trav?" I ask, not looking at him as I merge my car back onto the I-17. "No parties, okay? No getting high, no drinking."
"Sure, Jo."
I can't tell if he's lying. I'm not even sure if I can ask such things of him. He's a teenager. It feels like setting him up for failure.
By the time we get home, I've had to stop once more for food. Travis eats like a horse, not shockingly. I round the car and open the trunk, handing the suitcase to Travis and shouldering the duffels.
"I hope you like couches," I tell him. He follows me inside.
"Couches are great," he answers.
Shelby grilled hamburgers, and even though we ate not too long ago and it's late, Travis eats again.
When it's time for bed, he helps me spread the sheets over the couch and tuck them into the cracks. He uses my bathroom, and when he comes out, I see a much younger Travis. I don't know if it's his pajamas, which are really just basketball shorts and a T-shirt, or the fact that his hair is messy, but my heart lurches. He's been through so much already, and he's only fifteen. Almost the same age I was when he was born.
He settles on the couch and rifles through one of his bags. Playfully I jostle his hair on my way out of the room. I'm almost gone when I hear a soft, "Thank you, Jo."
A lump forms in my throat. "Anytime, Trav."
When I'm nestled under the covers, I dial Wyatt. He's called three times since I left him a message earlier, and I haven't had a chance to call him back until now.
"Hey there," he says, his deep voice crackling over the line.
My phone beeps and it's him, asking for me to FaceTime. I hit the button and his gorgeous face comes on the screen.
"You make for pretty good eye candy," I tell him, my chest feeling a little lighter just at the first glimpse of him.
He frowns. "Why are you in bed?"
"Because I'm tired." Just mentioning my exhaustion conjures a yawn, and I cover my mouth.
"What I mean is, why are you not inmybed?"
I tell him about Travis and my drive to Phoenix. And about the pie.
"I'm going to make sure the main house is livable as soon as possible," Wyatt promises. He's in his kitchen, heating up leftovers Juliette brought over from the dinner he missed, and I can hear the beeping of the microwave.
"Why did you miss dinner?" My voice is getting thick, my eyes heavy.
Wyatt takes so long to answer that it draws me from my tiredness. I force my eyes all the way open. He looks conflicted.
"Sara needed help at her house. There was some damage to a wall and I helped her patch and paint over it."
My lips press together. I nod, but all it manages to do is mess up my hair. I want to understand why Wyatt runs to help Sara, but he is so guarded about it.
