“Not yet. I’ll tell you when you can,” she says, preempting my next question. “And it’s May of next year. Now they’re trying to set up a reading at East Side Stories for the release, but I’m pushing back.”
“Why?”
Castillo looks at me like I just asked why rain is wet. “Because I don’t want to read poetry to strangers? What if someone I work with comes? What if there’svideoand they share it onsocial media?”
“It’s poetry collection, not the Anarchist’s Cookbook,” I point out, but I only get a pitying stare in return. “I’m just saying! It’s awesome that they want you to do a reading. I think you should.”
“Maybe,” she allows, straightening a napkin. Castillo’s poetry is probably the reason we’re still close friends instead of buddies who used to serve together; when we met, we were both Mexican kids who joined up for questionable reasons, but then it turned out we got along because she was quiet and awkward while I was too much and too loud, and eventually she showed me her poetry and I showed her my drawings.
Also, after I left the Marines with an honorable discharge and an Oxy problem, she’s the only one who kept calling me. Castillo’s been around through all of it, and, inexplicably, she still wants to hang out.
“Wait, and youthinkyou’re dating someone?”
“We’ve been out a couple times and slept together, but we haven’t talked about labels or exclusivity yet.” She shrugs. “We’re going birdwatching this weekend.”
“I think if you go on dates with someone you’re dating,” I say. I’ve got a straw wrapper in my hand, and I’m mindlessly twisting it around my fingers.
“Probably.”
“Is birdwatching a big date thing?” I’ve never considered going on a birdwatching date, but then again, dating has…not been a priority lately.
“No, but he likes it, and I’m curious about his hobbies,” she says. “Besides, I’ve never been birdwatching. Could be fun to learn a new skill.”
To me, birdwatching sounds like a mandatory activity in one of the circles of Hell—you have to stay stillandquietandvigilant?—but Castillo’s cheeks have gone faintly pink, and I think I’m witnessing the friendship equivalent of the double-beaked vermillion featherback or some extremely rare bird: she’sblushing.
“You’reintothis one.” I grin at her. She wrinkles her nose like feelings are gross. I get it.
“Yeah,” she admits. “I think I am.”
“He does anything wrong, you let me know and I’ll kick his ass,” I offer. It’s probably unnecessary—Castillo has either four or five brothers—but I like to try.
“Lopez,” she says patiently, “if he fucks up, I’ll kick his ass myself, and probably do a better job than you would.”
“Harsh.”
She shrugs, smiling.
We huggoodbye in the parking lot, and then Castillo heads back to her civilian job in Naval logistics or something, and I get into my car and debate going back to North Carolina.
I feel better. Not better enough to stick around here, but better enough that driving until the road dead ends into a swamp doesn’t seem like the best option any more. I’m still restless and twitchy, and I need to be away fromhere, rightnow. I needed to be away from here hours ago, but I don’t feel like I might scratch my own skin off any more.
When I left Madeline’s place early this morning, before she got back from her workout class, I had the vague idea that I’d get on the interstate and drive until I figured out where to go because at least I’d be away from Virginia Beach. It’s easier to fall back into familiar patterns when you’re in the place where those patterns got familiar. It took years for me to feel like leaving was a helpful problem-solving tool instead of an admission that I couldn’t handle being around my old life.
It’s why I moved to Sprucevale in the first place: a guy I barely knew offered me a lifeline, and I took it. That was nearly two years ago, and it’s probably the best thing I’ve done for myself since…ever.
If I were smart, I’d go straight home, tell both of my jobs I’m back early, and then work on the freelance design project I’ve got a deadline for next week. Actually, no. If I were smart, yesterday I’d have had a calm, rational conversation with my?—
“Not helpful,” I say out loud to my windshield. It doesn’t respond, which is rude of it.
In the end,I decide to drive toward home and see if I get a better idea on the way there.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MADELINE
Friday afternoon,I’m at work, at my desk, wondering if I can somehow get out of my four o’clock meeting when my dad calls.Calls. During work hours, without texting first.
I answer on the second ring.
