“I know that,” I assure her, taking no offense at her outburst. Unlike Katherine, who needs assistance with almost every task—doing her taxes, opening jam jars—Mira is fiercely independent. Running her own business, living alone, and shutting down assholes at the bar. I’ve never doubted that she can do anything.
She assesses her surroundings before reorienting herself, a task easier now my phone flashlight is illuminating the path.
“I’m not drunk,” Mira argues.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But I know you’re thinking it,” she replies, pressing her finger to her temple.
“Actually, I was thinking about what you had to eat today.”
Since the bears disrupted her meal earlier, I’m certain most of her daily calories today have come from sugar and alcohol.
“Vanessa gave me a granola bar,” she announces, and my heart sinks. I have a car, I could have gone out and got her something instead of sulking upstairs. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own feelings, I haven’t done the one thing I want to do—take care of her.
I consider asking her to go with me to find a late-night taco stand or twenty-four-hour diner, but I doubt a place exists here.
“Come on,” I say, guiding her towards the Big Barn. “I think I saw a vending machine earlier.”
“Tried it already,” she says, threading her arm through mine. “All I found was a can of Surge and a bag of 3D Doritos.”
My pulse quickens as she leans into me, her body warm against mine. I keep my voice steady. “I thought they discontinued those in the early 2000s.”
“They call them preservatives for a reason,” she says, her voice reverberating through the thin walls. I usher her towards our room.
“I bet we could sell them on eBay,” she states, holding up a finger in a eureka moment. “There are collectors out there who will buy anything.”
“Is there really a market for moldy chips?”
“If they’re shaped like Jesus,” she laughs as I unlock the door.
Even though everything is still a mess between us, returning to our typical banter gives me a glimmer of hope that I might be able to salvage this.
“I think I get it now,” she says, kicking off one of her shoes.
“Get what?” I ask, keeping a watchful eye on her as she balances on one foot to remove her other shoe.
“Why they call them Sloshies.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I am sloshed,” she giggles, bumping into the dresser with a clang, and placing her hands on the frame of the bunk bed to steady herself.
“How about we get you to bed?” I say, leading her towards the bottom bunk.
“I’m not tired,” Mira protests, like a child, her arms across her chest. Even angry at me I can’t help but think how adorable she is.
“If you get into bed, I’ll tell you a secret.”
It’s a long shot. A game we played on particularly boring nights at Finn’s. An elevated version of twenty questions that allows the secret-sharer to decide what they are ready to disclose without having to evade unwanted questions. It’s how I found out that she never learned how to ride a bike after falling off one when she was five and spraining her ankle. And that her secret comfort show isHannah Montana.
“You do have a lot of those,” she scoffs, as a heavy creak rings out through the silent room. I expected her to roll onto the bottom bunk, or stake her claim to the queen bed, both of which I’d awardher gladly, but I turn and see her climbing the rungs of the ladder towards the top bunk.
Standing behind her, I keep my arm below her back, at the ready to catch her in case she falls. With each step, her toned legs move upward, until her perfect ass is in my face. I turn away, silently praising the inventor of spandex, and wait for her to get settled.
Once she’s completely horizontal, I take my place underneath her in the lower bunk. I stare up at the graffiti scribbles on the slats above me. Typical teenage vandalism. A graphic doodle of a penis. An assortment of rainbow stickers. And a heart with the words “Heather and Ashton 4Ever.” I consider if Ashton and Heather are still together when the bed creaks above me.
“Hudson?”
