There’s a long, long silence.
“I don’t know where I was going with that. I think he ran off the road because of a football? When he was in high school?”
“Sounds right,” I say and lapse into silence. The sun is just barely cresting over the trees. I’m tired because I got up before dawn, but I drank three cups of coffee so I’m also way too awake. It’s a rough combination.
We’re quiet all the way to my apartment, but before I can open the door Wyatt suddenly clears his throat.
“Hey. Listen, you know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”
It’s way too early for a conversation about feelings or fucking up or anything else, but Wyatt’s one of thosemorning people.
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, and hope it sounds convincing.
“I’m not saying you’re not fine,” he goes on, and this sounds a little like…he’s practiced? “I’m saying that I’m—part of your support system, and I want to support you.”
We look at each other, and I think:aw, fuck.
“I haven’t even had a sip of beer in months,” I tell him, my voice coming out more tired and ragged than I feel. “I promise, there are plenty of people I can talk to. I still go to meetings sometimes. I’ve got plenty of resources…”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Then it probably should be.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, but fuck it, I’m right. No one ever saysYeah, you’ll probably relapse againout loud, but I can feel it lurking behind every careful conversation I have. The worst part is that everyone is right to worry about it. I worry about it. How could I not?
“Can I decide that?”
I almost say no, but I swallow it instead. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re fine. It’s just—” He takes his hands off the wheel and scrubs them over his face, and now I feel bad for snapping at him. “That was a weird way for me to say that we’re friends and if you want to talk to me about how your family is driving you up the fucking wall, you can.” He gives me a tired but jaunty little half smile. “That’s all I meant.”
I blow out an exhale and tilt my head against the headrest because he’s half-right, actually. Maybe three-quarters. And thank god he essentially saidYour family is nutsand notHaveyou been fucking your stepsister? You seem like you’ve been fucking your stepsister.
“They can be a lot,” I say.
“You have tells,” he agrees, and then I complain about my family for the next five minutes while he nods.
Nine hours later,I’m back at the vacation rental with a thousand-piece puzzle, a box of Abuelita, a box of candy canes, and some cookies that Wyatt’s mom brought by my receptionist job and informed me I was taking to my poor stepsister who trusted her GPS, bless her heart.
“Those arenotfor you,” I tell Bastien when he reaches for the third one.
“You just said they’re for everyone.”
“Yeah, so let everyone have a chance!”
“There are…” He starts counting. “Still twenty-three left, and I bet you’ve already had a couple?—”
He reaches for another one, and this time I smack his hand.
“Ow! What the fuck?”
“Bastien. Language,” my mom says from across the kitchen, and he rolls his eyes at me.
“Javi hit me!”
“Javier, don’t hit your brother.”
“He’s eating Madeline’s cookies!” I shout, and Bastien’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “Not like that,” I grumble.
“Madeline’scookies,” he says, sotto voce, just to me.
