Then Jamar takes a step forward and kisses Taylor on the lips. It’s a long—adorably awkward—closed-mouthed kiss where they both keep their hands in fists at their sides.
They separate and look at each other. “Bye,” he says. And promptly turns around and walks away as quickly as possible. Taylor turns back to us, her face pink.
“You good?” I ask her teasingly.
“Yes.” She walks past me as her mouth slowly curls into a smile, and Amy and I have to bite our lips to keep from laughing. Then Rocky Horror, Cara, Amy and Henri-Two, and I follow her down the dirt-and-gravel driveway to the road. There, we say goodbye to the man and woman at the entrance, thanking them for their hospitality.
We’re probably fifty feet away from the Faraway Campground when the woman at the entrance whistles behind us.
“Looks like you forgot one!” she calls out.
I turn to see the Kid running for us. Bobo and Albie flop in eitherhand, and he’s hunched over with the weight of his backpack. I jog to meet him halfway and crouch down.
“Kid, you have to stay here.”
But he shakes his head. “I want to come with you.”
“It’s safer here. For all three of you.” I wiggle one of Bobo’s legs, but the Kid shakes his head. “Please? I promise you’re going to be okay here.”
“I want Jamie, too.”
Shit. I stand and turn to the others, using my eyes to ask for help. I could lie to him and say Jamie’s coming back. But then the Kid grabs my hand and holds tight. I look down to see Albie and Bobo tucked under one arm. The Kid looks ahead at the others.
“We’re not going to find Jamie,” I say. “He had to go do something.”
The Kid looks up at me. “But he’s coming back here?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. He might meet up with us later.”
“I want to come with you, then.”
Cara shrugs and pats Rocky Horror on the shoulder. “Glad to have you back, Mary Poppins.”
Rocky Horror groans, pretending to hate everything about this moment while the others give him a hard time. The Kid pulls me along, helping me give up a little easier. Because I definitely would have missed him, too.
Jamison
THERE’S TWENTY-FOUR OF US ALTOGETHER. INCLUDING GROVERDenton. I have no idea why he’s here, but his eyes keep darting over to me in the back of the pickup truck. It’s raining and we’ve covered ourselves with tarps, but my pants are still soaked from the water pooling in the bed.
We’ve been driving since this morning—only stopping once to get situated after the rain started. That’s when I realized I still had the road atlas we were using before we met up with the Nomads. Not that Cal and the other guy in charge need it. They’re taking the same routes we took to Faraway, but will eventually cut across South Carolina to get to I-95. From there, Denton’s given them directions to Fort Caroline in Georgia.
After a couple of hours, the rain starts pouring down even harder. The person driving the truck pulls over, and he and Cal get out and come around to the truck bed. Cal motions for us to climb down.
“We’ll swap you six with six in the RV so you have some time to dry off.”
The RV folks have already been chosen, probably because Calradioed back and asked for volunteers. We thank them and get into the RV.
They’ve removed the bed from the rear of the RV to make more room for supplies and for people to sit. One of the people at the dining room table looks up from the maps in front of her. She’s an older white woman with messy brown-and-gray hair. She points behind her.
“There’s a bathroom you can use to change,” she says. “The plumbing isn’t hooked up right, so don’t use it. But you can throw your ponchos in the shower, and we’ll hang them to dry when we camp for the night in Orangeburg.”
The guy in front of me nods and goes into the bathroom. I have no idea how Cal managed to recruit so many people on such short notice. I scan their faces, looking for Niki, but she isn’t here, so she must be in the back room of the RV. The people around me all look serious, like they’re totally ready for this. They aren’t doing it for me—I’ve said maybe fifteen words to anyone in this RV since we first met up with the Nomads—so they must have their own reasons. Denton isn’t the only one from Faraway who joined either.
The bathroom door opens and I go in, throwing my poncho on top of the others in the shower. I change my pants, underwear, and socks—my shirt is a little damp but not bad—and look at myself in the mirror.
I used to be able to shave only every other week, but the hair on my face has been getting thicker. Andrew still gets away with twice a month, tops. He could do it even less, but it makes him itchy.
The moment I think of him—and how far away he is right now—my chest tightens, a wave of anxiety walloping me. My hands shakeand I have to turn away from my own reflection.
