I shoot up straight. “Sorry.”
“Oh. Yeah. No problem,” he says, scooting two steps to the side and resuming his game like nothing ever happened.
“I SAID—” Aunt Karen’s voice booms through the speakers as I climb the steps, and I have to rip the phone from my ear.
“I’m sorry. The bus driver is a little… distracted.”
“Maybe you should have worn something other than that cowl neck sweater. That would have gotten his attention.”
I sink into the farthest seat I can find. The blue microfiber hugs my thighs, and I sigh as I look out the window. A handful of guys are loading their suitcases now, and Carl has dropped his phone to gape as they bend over.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m his type,” I say.
She changes the subject. “Have you heard from him yet?”
“Once.”
“And you think he doesn’t care,” she argues.
“He said, and I quote, ‘you don’t need to come.’”
She sucks air between her teeth. “Yeah, I’ll admit, that sounds bad. But you have to trust me on this one. He means well.”
“Please tell me I’m not making a mistake,” I beg. “You know me! I’m not impulsive.”
“Switzerland would be impulsive, Hayes. You’re goinghome.”
“So youdothink I’m making the right decision?” I ask.
She hums. “I think I’ve watched you miss him for years. I think you’re doing exactly what you need to do to find peace.”
“I miss you already,” I admit. I have no idea how often I’ll have cell service when I’m not at the barracks. “How will I survive not talking to you every day?”
“You’ll be fine, and I’ll be busy.” She giggles. “Besides, you’ll have Dean if you need someone.”
The mention of my former best friend’s name sends the hairon my arms standing. A lot has changed in four years. But that’s the least of my worries right now.
“Let me guess… Tinder matched you with a new round of Utah singles.”
“Ten!” She squeals. “I told you I’d set you up with a profile if you’d ever give me the go ahead.”
“Never,” I say.
I can’t think of anything worse.
She sighs. “That’s what I thought.”
The bifold doors slap closed. With the high back chairs, all I can see of Carl now is a conductor hat in the same shade as his baggy outfit.
“I think we’re about to hit the road, so I better go. I’ll call you when I make it, okay?”
“I’m holding you to it,” she says, and the call abruptly ends.
With the frequent rock and dip of the bus, my body eventually relaxes.
Even if I still have a two-hour-and-thirty-six-minute ride ahead of me, it feels a little late to respond to that text now.
I fix a pair of headphones in my ears and open Pandora. My favorite stations fill my collection page—Yuruma, Michael Bublé, The Piano Guys—I’m sure they’d all do the trick.
