“Seasickness bracelets,” she explains, catching my curious look. She straps them around her wrists, positioning the knobs against her pulse points. “I get carsick. These help.”
I file that information away with the other details I’ve been collecting about her. Loves gaming. Listens to fairy spice. Gets carsick on long drives.
“Anything I can do?” I ask. “Crack a window? Distract you with riveting conversation?”
She smiles, adjusting the bracelets. “Hopefully, it won’t be that bad. But if you see me turning green, have a paper bag ready?”
“Noted.”
The bus merges onto the highway, and the kids’ energy settles. Some play road trip games. Others lean against the windows, already drowsy despite their earlier excitement. Rhys is fogging up the glass and drawing what could be a chicken or a velociraptor.
Faye and I sit in companionable silence.
I’m hyperaware of the way her knee jiggles. Of how she keeps reaching up to adjust her ponytail, fingers sliding along the length of it.
That damn ponytail. It’s begging for me to pull it until she has to tilt her head back, giving me access to kiss the column of her throat until she makes those breathy sounds I’ve been imagining.
I’m regressing. Devolving into a teenager with no self-control.
This is bad.
But also comfortable. Easy. We don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Sharing space with no need to fill it with words is intimate.
The bus rolls onto Highway 54, heading south.
The drive stretches on. An hour passes, then another. Kids doze off or watch the cartoon being projected on the entertainment system. The occasional burst of laughter reaches us from the back rows.
We wind through the Ozark hills, the trees thickening on either side of the road. Spring has turned everything a vibrant green, and wildflowers dot the roadside in bursts of color.
For the entire trip, Bettany keeps me busy in the parents chat.
Faye notices me texting again and asks, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I scroll through my notifications. “Bettany has already sent six update requests in the group chat, and we’re not even there yet.”
She bites back a laugh. “About what?”
“Asking if we’re making good time. If the kids are well-behaved. If the weather looks promising.” I remove my baseball cap, scratch my scalp, and put it back on. “And adding that, as room parent, she’s confident this will be an excellent educational experience.”
Faye smiles. “That title really brings her joy.”
“And you, incredible patience.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Are you complimenting me, Mr. Evans?”
“Stating facts, Miss Rose.”
I read Bettany’s latest text and frown.
“What now?” Faye asks.
I look up from my phone with a sheepish smile. “I think I accidentally volunteered to host the class end-of-year party at the fun farm.”
“Oh, the kids would love that.”
“Ah, then it’s done.” I grin. “I’ll let the room parent steamroll me and pretend it was my idea.”
Faye shakes her head, but she’s still half smiling as, at around ten thirty, the bus slows. We drive past the wooden sign for Roaring River State Park and pull into the visitor center parking lot. The kids perk up, pressing against the windows to see.
