And I’m glad. Every night, he has me brush it for him, the cool strands slinking over my fingers in a strange, soothing form of foreplay. I get to do whatever I want with it, and he always tells me he loves it.
An acoustic cover of Doja Cat’s ‘Paint the Town Red’ falls from his lips, and a few stragglers rushing for the boat stop for a second, their brows furrowed. One laughs, tossing some cash into his case, and the group rushes on. When the song finishes, I slide my arms around his shoulders, kissing the side of his neck.
“Beautiful!” He jumps up, laying the guitar to the side and welcoming me into the circle of his arms. He won the instrument in a dare with a stranger to climb up the side of a building in New Mexico, much to Walker’s annoyance.
“Hey! I’m here to walk you home,” I say, tugging on his braid, his eyes darkening with the move.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Should I help you pack up?”
His smile turns feral, the edge of mania showing through. It’s been like this since we ran. Like we’re all waiting for the second shoe to drop, Jansen especially. A few weeks after we landed here, he and I negotiated a deal where I have responsibility for most of his choices. I’m happy to help, and it’s a fun power trip to have him at my beck and call, but I worry. I can’t be the only thing keeping him together.
The plan, even if it works out perfectly, won’t be easy on him. And while he says he’ll be fine, well, I guess we’ll see. Instead of mulling over unknowns, I wind my hand around the braid, tugging him closer, our kiss probably too X-rated for a public space, but it’s exactly what we both want.
I let him pull back, his hands on my waist, strong fingers digging in a little harder than necessary. “I have a surprise when we get home,” I say, wishing this didn’t feel like the beginning of the end.
“I love surprises,” he says, pressing another, more chaste, kiss on my lips. Then he ducks down, his braid slipping through my fingers as he scoops up the cash he made and shoves it into his pockets, his guitar locked in the case while I fold up his chair, slinging it over my shoulder.
Walker meets us at the edge of the plaza, the three of us waving to Matteo as we leave.
The dusty alley I found RJ and Trips sparring in isn’t far from the lot we rented for the RV. Paula’s Tío Juan lets us hook up to his water and electricity for a minimal weekly fee, and otherwise, he leaves us be.
There was a short-lived spat between Fluffington and one of his chickens, but then the cat scared off a coyote that wanted the entire flock, and the prince became a hero instead of a menace. That cat needs more moves than a pounce and hold on, but hey, if it works, I guess there’s no reason to change it. Even if I have scars from that exact move.
Convincing Jansen’s mom that he’d had to take Fluffington with him to study abroad should have been impossible. But after a month-long campaign of photoshopped pictures of Fluffington at various Swiss landmarks, she bought it. Or at least, she stopped openly questioning it.
Stealing my boyfriend’s mom’s cat for more than half a year was preposterous, but none of this has been easy or predictable.
Honestly, the only easy part of all this was my mom’s silence. I don’t even know if my dad has shared my emails with her, and I’m not sure I want to know. The longer we’re apart, the less I want to put up with her shit. The longer we’re apart, the more I want to get my dad out of that house so he can see what I see.
By the time we get back to the RV, Trips is damp and sprawled in his hammock, a tattered book on anger management in his giant hands. “Any news?” he asks.
“Yeah. Big news. Is the shower open? My skin is sticky.”
He goes back to his book. “RJ should be done. If not, it’s not like that will stop you from joining him.”
“Your jealousy is showing,” Walker says, his hand on the small of my back.
“Maybe. Doesn’t mean it’s not also the truth.” He flips a page, and I sigh, Jansen pulling the chair from my shoulder and adding it to the circle we’ve made in the yard. The RV is too small for five people and one cat, so our living space spread into the dirt out front. I climb into our tin can and run into RJ’s freshly-washed self.
“I miss having a big bathroom,” slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.
His grin turns dark, and his arm bands around my waist, pulling me close. “We’d get into even more trouble in a big bathroom, sugar.”
“Exactly.”
His laugh has my bones melting, and I press my sticky forehead against his clean chest. “This is nice.”
“You sound sad,” he says, pulling back and urging me to look at him.
“Maybe a little. I’ll tell you after my shower.”
The room is already full of steam, and I make quick work of getting clean. The news is important, and everyone here knows what I look like, clean or not.
Clothed or not.
Even if one of them is less intimate with that information than the others.
