Cecily's arms cross. She stares out the window.
The moments pass, and I say, "That's what I thought."
"You didn't think anything. Your brain is too small."
For a man who had such a cutting remark tossed his way, I'm grinning broadly. Cecily doesn't mean it. "Ajournal"—extra emphasis on the word—"might be something you'd enjoy reading later. After the trip is over."
"After my grandma is gone, you mean."
I wince. "I was trying not to say it quite like that, but yes."
Cecily is quiet, tracing an unknown design on her thigh. "She was short of breath yesterday. Did you notice?"
"Yes." It's what prompted me to think about a journal. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. Obviously. But you're in a unique position. Even taking a note on your phone would suffice."
"True," Cecily says, a lone fingertip swirling over the fabric of her yellow pants. They are paired with a small top, something that shows off an inch of her midsection when she's standing. "Sometimes loved ones die suddenly, and you don't get to say goodbye. Or I love you." Her voice softens. "Or thank you." She looks at me. "Has anybody you loved ever died suddenly?"
"No. I have very little experience with death." Other than what's happening now, anyway. To be here, firsthand witnessing a family scrambling to get their act together as their matriarch prepares to leave them behind, is an honor. Mostly. It's weighing on me, too, on a much lesser scale. "What about you?"
"Not really. Maybe tangentially, when I was younger. Growing up in Olive Township, a friend of Duke's lost his father. He was murdered, and the crime went unsolved until recently."
The story sounds familiar, and then I remember why. "My parents watched the news when that happened. It was all over every channel." Specifically, I recall sitting in the nurse's office and seeing it on the small TV that sat on the corner of her desk. It was the first time I understood such violence could take place outside of a book, fiction or otherwise.
"I was too young to understand it, but I grew up alongside the family. I watched how it devastated them." Cecily resumes tracing her thigh. "A journal is a good idea. Thank you, Dom, for suggesting it."
My eyebrow crooks. "Are we back toDom?"
Cecily presses her fingertips to her mouth, making anoopsface. "My apologies, Satan's Errand Boy."
Two steps forward, one step back.
The last time I said that to Cecily, she informed me it meant I was still making progress. She was right.
I have never expended maximum effort for half the reward. Yet, here I am with Cecily, eager to net a single step of progress. I don't care how much work it takes. How much worksheis. I want it. I want her.
Maybe it's crazy. Maybe I'm insane. What I know more than anything is that I cannot tell her, not yet. Cecily's priority must be her grandmother. Her family.
And there it is. The second reason I came on this road trip. I knew Cecily would need a friend, even one she loathed. What I think I hid, even from myself, was that I needed to be that friend. I could not, would not, allow anybody else to take that spot. I could have given her that annulment. Quite simply, I didn't want to. My heart knew what my brain did not.
I want the woman sitting beside me.
I chance a glance at her now, the dark hair that slips over her shoulders, the way her teeth strum at her lower lip.
Our eyes meet briefly before I turn back to the road. "Are you ready for that playlist I made yesterday?"
"I reserve the right to veto."
"I reserve the right to block your veto."
She huffs, pretending like this irritates her. It doesn't, and I know it. Everything about her demeanor has shifted, even if her words are as sharp as ever. Her arms are not crossed in front of her, a place where they were previously glued. Her shoulders no longer hover near her ears, back muscles bunched and ready for a fight.
I hit the play button on my phone, and the first song on my carefully curated playlist fills the car. The rowdy notes bounce around, the song easy to identify.
"Viva Las Vegas" by Elvis Presley.
Cecily rolls her eyes. "Veto." She taps my phone screen, and I press my lips together because I know what's coming.
"Marry You" by Bruno Mars.
