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Silence. He sets the trash aside and shifts closer, wrapping an arm around my chest, just below my chin. I hold his forearm, resting my head on it.

“Are you homesick?” I whisper.

“Hmm,” he says. “I have no home to be homesick for.”

I swallow past the prickle in my throat. “Not even the one you had with your mom?”

“My mom’s not there anymore in that house.”

“No,” I admit.

We’re both quiet. The sun overhead is a searing ball of fire overhead, the famous Alabama heat I’ve heard about.

“Maybe the house where she used to live goes everywhere with you now,” I say finally. “It’s not a place on the map anymore.”

He sniffs. I don’t turn around; if he’s teared up, I doubt he wants me to see and make it awkward.

“You know, I never thought about it like that,” he says finally. “I guess that’s why seeing where the house used to be didn’t fix anything. I don’t…have to go back to find her.”

I shift closer, leaning my head against his heart.

“I think she does,” I whisper. “I would have liked to have met her.”

His grip tightens, then relaxes. “She would have gotten a kick out of you. You’d have loved her. She was real sharp, real smart.”

“I believe it.”

Closing my eyes, I turn my head. Beneath my ear, his heart thumps in a slow and steady beat. It’s so gentle, like the soft wind coming over the hills, like the dust that comes along with it. Gentle like him. The lump in my throat keeps coming back. I swallow it again. A tear slips out and falls on his arm.

“Baby,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whisper. “I just…hate that you hurt.”

He wipes the side of my cheek. “Don’t cry over me. Right now, I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long damn time.”

Those are heavy words, ones with implications.

I don’t fight them. I don’t worry. We stay right where we are until his watch beeps. I stir, turning around, all my joints popping.

“We should get back on the road,” I say.

We gather up our things, and I go to the truck while he refills our drinks. We’re pulling back on the highway when he touches my elbow, running his finger lightly down to my wrist. He weaves his fingers in mine and closes his fingers. It’s very intimate.

“Thanks for saying that,” he says.

I can’t speak, so I just hold him tight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

COEN

We get to the other side of town and hit a stretch of road that feels like a movie in the worst way, just dried up grass and endless fields for miles with a single, two lane highway down the center. At one point, Sabrina says she sees a gas station, but the closer we get, the more I have to squint. Then, we both realize our eyes must be giving out from the endless staring, because it disappears.

“Not creepy at all,” she says.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find something soon.”

We do, but it takes another few hours. At that point, she jumps out of the truck and practically runs to the exterior bathroom on the side of the gas station. I wait outside, a little on edge. There’s really nothing out here. I’m glad for the Glock under the seat, but I’d hate to see that headline.