Page 77 of In Your Wake

“I shaved it off.”

Her eyes widen. “You shaved it off?” She tucks the gift into her large messenger bag, then grabs my arm, tugging me away from the others. “What do you mean, you shaved it off?”

“We made a bet, and I won. I hated that thing, so…” I shrug.

She bites her lower lip and stares at me, but her eyes are alive with amusement. That’s what I appreciate about Bethany—she’s a supportive friend, and doesn’t pry or beg for gossip. Still, her wide eyes and curious smile say she’s struggling not to ask for more.

“Don’t read into this too much,” I warn her.

“I’m not reading into anything. But a few weeks ago, you pretty much wanted the guy dead and now you’re getting close enough to shave him.”

“I never wanted him dead,” I correct.

She cocks her head, squinting those stunning hazel eyes.

“Not dead, Bee,” I say, chuckling. “I just didn’t want him in Oakwhite.”

She throws a hand out toward the car. “And yet you came here with him.”

Mitch and Hunter unload the gear, arguing about where to set up. When Spencer joins in on the debate, Bethany and I share a laugh.

“To be fair,” I say. “Hunter and Celia carpooled with us, so it’s not like I came here alone with him.”

“That’s it? You were just bumming a ride?”

“That’s absolutely it. We’re both trying to work past our shit.”

More like ignore it as best we can.

Mitchell comes over, clearly annoyed. Before he overhears, I whisper out of the corner of my mouth to Bethany, “Let it go, okay? Nothing’s happening.”

She nods just as Mitchell’s wide body blocks the sun, casting us in his shadow. “Hey, Bethany,” Mitch says. “Happy belated birthday.”

“Thank you!” She quickly gives him a hug. “Love the new look.”

As if reminded, he rubs his chin. “Oh, yeah, thanks. It’s taking some getting used to. Like everything in life, I suppose.”

It’s been two days since I shaved his beard but it’s already grown back into a short scruff that, oddly, I don’t hate. He briefly looks at me, and Bethany, as if picking up on the palpable tension, shifts her eyes back and forth between us.

“I’m going to go see what’s the holdup with them,” she says, leaving us.

Mitch sidles up next to me and glances around.

“Where are you putting your tent?” I ask.

“As far from yours as possible,” he answers. “No offense, but if memory serves, you snore like a chainsaw.”

“That’s not the long rod. This is,” I argue, holding the black metal stick.

“No, Maxine. This is,” Mitchell replies, his tone dripping with condescending arrogance.

“Ugh, you’re so fucking wrong.”

“I’m not wrong. You’re just stubborn,” he shoots back.

“Why are you even here? I don’t need your help. I’ll handle this.”

With too much force and determination to prove I know what I’m doing, I shove the pole into the sleeve and hear the fabric tear.