Cash’s bare feet hit the water, and he realizes mid-run that he has his phone on him. He skids to a halt, shoves his hand into his back pocket and pulls it out. Then, he turns and runs back to us.
“I’ll put all our phones in the car,” Wilder says as I hand over my cell.
Cash shakes his head. “That would have been bad.”
“Wait!” I say as Cash hands his phone to Wilder. “We should take a selfie. At least one.”
Both boys seem okay with it because Wilder leans in on my right and Cash leans in on my left.
I snap the photo and then we all hand Wilder our phones.
The moment he’s gone, the space between Cash and me fills with tension.
Long, thick, suffocating tension.
“I think I have trauma from the last time we took a photo on your phone,” he quietly admits.
Oh, right.
The video.
“I’m really sorry about that,” I say to him as his gaze shifts to the sand. “I… feel really terrible.”
“About sleeping with Wilder or me finding out in the worst way imaginable?”
Guilt floods my chest.
I don’t regret last summer with Wilder. But I do regret the way Cash found out about it.
“I’m sorry that you found out the way you did,” I say, the words sounding steadier than I feel. “If I had a do-over, I’d tell you right away what was going on with Wilder and me. I’m sorry I kept that from you. You deserved more than that from me.”
Cash gives me a small smile. “I appreciate you saying that, Ingrid.”
“I mean it,” I continue. “I’m sorry.”
He nods and finally looks at me. His blue eyes—once so familiar—feel distant and strange now.
“Thank you.”
He looks deep in thought. I wonder if he’s thinking about his mother. Or his father. This whole trip, he’s avoided the subject of his family like the plague.
“Have you talked to your parents at all?” I ask.
Cash shakes his head. “Nope.”
Silence falls between us again. But this time, it’s a little easier to stomach. There’s not so much tension.
“You know,” Cash says, nearly startling me. “This road trip was more fun than I thought it was going to be.”
“It has been fun,” I reply as I shove my hands into my pockets.
“What’s been your favorite bucket list item so far?” he asks.
I shrug. “Probably the ocean right now. Or maybe Cadillac Ranch.”
“I think the Sandia Tram was my favorite,” he returns.
Something about the way he says it stings.
