“Maybe Bowen can give you a ride back home? We can get the van sorted when we’re back.”
Being locked in a car with Bowen for two hours? Water boarding sounds better.
“Yeah, okay. That works. Sorry for bothering you. Tell Mom I said hi. Have a great trip.”
“We will. Hey, Kit?”
My eyes burn, and I lean forward, phone pressed to my ear and face in my other hand. “Yeah, Dad?”
“It’s so good to hear you’re on your way back home. We love you.”
I swipe at my eyes, nodding again.
“Love you.”
We hang up, and I stare at my phone. The lock screen is a picture of Brett and me. He’s sticking his tongue out, and I’m rolling my eyes with a smile on my face. Brett would know what to do right now. He would tell me like it was the most obvious, singular option.
I have no clue.
After who knows how long of sitting there feeling sorry for myself and letting the knife buried in my chest twist with every deep laugh from the porch, I get up with my stuff and make my way outside.
“I’m just sayin’ man,” Ian laughs. “Oh, hey, Kit. Just in time for pizza.”
The box he holds up has thePepperoni Kinglogo on it. The one and only pizza place that will deliver here. I haven’t eaten anything but a protein bar this morning, but I still shake my head and walk right on by.
I take the steps quickly, and I’m not even sure I breathe until I’m in the familiar cramped space of my van.
It's like a sauna.
I’m instantly sweaty. Tacky skin. Ugh.
I fish out a Pop-Tart and a jar of peanut butter and am halfway through stuffing my face in the dark like a troll when I hear Ian get closer.
“I know—I’m just grabbing my bag.” He hiccups the hiccup of a drunk person, and I strain my ears and hear what sounds like his truck door opening and closing. Then his footsteps crunching the occasional leaf back to the porch. There is a quiet murmur of their voices, then nothing.
I hold out for about thirty seconds before I can’t take it anymore and scramble to the covering on the window and pull it sideways to peek. They’re both in the cabin, the cooler left on the front porch.
I slide the door of the van open slowly and suck in a much-needed breath of slightly cooler air.
I guess Ian has sleepovers.
I smear peanut butter on the other half of my Pop-Tart and rip into it like it's a steak. I wonder what they’re doing? What do grown men do during drunken sleepovers?
I can think of one thing.
Two,maybe, but both are done naked.
I want to puke.
But instead, I finish my Pop-Tart, drag my pillow by the open van door, and lay down.
I’m woken up by the sticky heat and the smell of smoke. I blink my eyes open, and I have the perfect view of the porch steps…and the figure sitting onthem. The cherry of the cigarette burns brighter when he takes a hit, and I watch the tendrils of smoke in front of his face. His features are mostly hidden by the shadows of night, but I can see enough that it makes my heart trip over itself.
He’s beautiful. Always has been. Always will be.
He doesn’t say anything else about where I’m sleeping. I don’t make a move to go to the cabin.
Dear B,
