Page 49

“Brina, so help me God, I will call the cops.”

That pisses me off. I take a beat and then clear my throat, making sure my voice is low and controlled.

“You will not,” I say. “I’m twenty-four. The cops will not do a single thing. I left on purpose. Nobody made me. I’ll be back in a little while. Don’t worry about me.”

“Brina, you don’t get it.”

Something deep in my chest snaps, followed by a flood of warmth, like my heart is bleeding.

“He’s not you, Dad,” I whisper.

He’s quiet, and then he coughs. “Baby, please don’t do this.”

“It’s just a road trip. We’ll be fine.”

He hangs up, which makes my jaw drop. Serena will talk to him and calm him down. He was like this once before, when Serena was eighteen and he found out she’d lost her v-card to one of the wranglers. I told her not to tell anyone, but then she missed her period, and Dad caught her going to the store for a test. Nobody hates cowboys more than Dad. He went out in the yard and beat the shit out of the guy, despite being thirty-some years older. The test was negative, thank God.

I put my phone away, throat tight.

“You okay?” Coen asks softly.

Nodding, I wipe my face. “He’s handling it better than I thought.”

There’s a long silence. Coen puts the truck in cruise and stretches his legs out, one hand hanging on the wheel.

“Your dad is pretty protective of you girls,” he remarks. “Something happen?”

I shrug miserably, not willing to get into it. Coen doesn’t pursue it. Instead, he reaches over and turns on the radio, strains of Tracy Chapman coming through the speakers. These songs are so familiar to me, it’s a balm to the turmoil in my chest. I close my eyes, and I’m not sure if I sleep, but I get close, because, suddenly, we’re pulling into the Walmart parking lot.

“You want to stay in the truck?”

I shake my head. “I need to grab some clothes. I didn’t pack enough.”

He gets out, circling the truck to open my door. I let him, unsure why he’s so insistent on it. The further east we go, the hotter it’s getting. Heat waves rise from the lot as we cross it, and it’s a relief to be hit with a wall of icy air as we get inside. He veers to the right, and I veer to the left without a word said. He’s easy to travel with. I like that.

He meets me at the register and insists on paying for my things again. This time, I agree, because what the hell?

I know he’s loaded anyway.

We get back into the truck. My back aches, and I stretch as he piles the tent, a couple chairs, and what appears to be a bucket full of random camping supplies into the bed of the truck. Then, he swings into the passenger side and hands me something. I uncurl my hand to find two Mary Janes in their signature brilliant yellow wrappers.

“What’s this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You were crying earlier.”

“And this is supposed to fix it?” I can’t bite back my smile.

He pulls the truck back on the road. “My mom used to give me Mary Janes when I’d cry as a little kid.”

My stomach jerks, the way it does when he lets me in a little bit. Inside, I’m grinning ear to ear and kicking my feet, but I have to stay calm. The wax paper peels back, and I bite off the end. The faint molasses, sticky with sugar, spreads over my tongue. It tastes like distant memories of summertime.

I’ve never wanted to stop the truck and climb in his lap more.

My brain is so horny right now. There’s something about his quiet firmness, how thoughtful he is, that really gets me going. Putting the candy on my tongue, I glance sideways at him at the same time he looks at me. Only, he’s looking at my mouth, watching me bite it in half.

“Give me some,” he says.

I reach for the wrapped one in my lap, but he takes the bitten one from my hand and puts it in his mouth.