“Yeah, I figured,” Mia replies to my silence. “It doesn’t have to be me, but you gotta talk to someone. Start working yourself up to it.”
Do I wait for her to taper off with the pushy advice, or do I have the guts to tell her to cut it out? Maybe a subject change?
“Es necesario. Kit?”
Saved by the rain. The fat drops fall fast. I’ve been in East Texas long enough to know this will be a downpour.
“See ya” is all I say to my friends. They know I always bolt back to my room when it rains. Storms are a dangerous catalyst for me now. It’s a felt loss. I’ve always loved the rain. I used to sit on our covered patio with Mom watching hail or lightning during summer storms. Now I just want to be alone, even more so with a chance of thunder.
The remaining girls accommodate the rain, apparently pleased for a diversion from the usual. The prepared ones expand their umbrellas. Sophie waves girls out of her way and yanks my blanket out from under them to hold it overhead. They giggle like kids in a homemade fort. We’ve seen before how our boys revert to childhood playing on the mushy field after a hard rain. I’m sorry to miss it. I drag myself and my empty cup away, not bothering to cover my head. Levi stretches out an arm and lifts a few fingers in gentlemanly salutation. I raise my hand in a soft wave.
Pleasant drips grow into splatters, until a distant rumble opens a pit in my stomach. I increase my pace. Guys slide down a hill, using Saga trays for sleds, but Mayberry silliness in action can’t even make me laugh. I try to remember that it could be worse. It could have been so much worse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A few days later,I’m writing a paper for Bible class, tapping my foot to Forrest Frank, pajama shorts on. I’ll never know how people do their work in constricting pants. I study the black and white prints of my family that hang above my bed as I consider what to write about covenants.
Ding. Ooh, a text from Levi is a rarity and always read immediately.
Hey, friend.
Can I drive you to the airport next week?
An image pops into my head—against my will, of course—of playing the airport game with Levi. When Mom sees PDA at the airport, she clasps her hands at her chest and lives their bittersweet moments vicariously, as if watching strangers hello and goodbye is better than a movie. She says couples can get away with way morePDA at the airport, hence the name the airport game. So corny. I forcibly dispose of that daydream and answer the text that started this line of thought.
Thanks, but my flight leaves from DFW.
Dallas is a two-hour drive away and far cheaper to fly from than the tiny airport nearby. I’m going to take a bus all the way to Dallas to save money—a lot of money—but all the bus stops mean the journey will cost me many hours. On the bright side, I’ll probably get my homework done before I even get to the airport.
I’m flying out too, remember?
Send the details for both of your flights?
His insistence is sweet. He’d save me several hours, not to mention how much more comfortable his ride would be. Still, the odds of our flights being at the same time are next to none. He must be planning to change his flights to align with mine. And this late? It’ll cost him. He’s impossible … and the offer is too good to pass up. But how could I manage this without sitting in his front seat? Sophie. She hasn’t bought her flights yet, always so last minute, but I bet she can be convinced to come with us. Pretty sure she can use her mom’s credit card for whatever she likes.
Thank you. So generous of you.
Can Sophie come too?
Nerves fill my gut. We’ve never covered the I-don’t-ride-in-the-front-seat rule. Then again, he’s a smart guy, and I actively avoid riding shotgun every time he drives our group somewhere.
Of course. Tell her I expect a road trip playlist for the ages.
A hauntingly beautiful adaptation of “Someone Like You” floats in from next door. I can’t bear to interrupt, so I wait until she putters out.
“Hey, Adele,” I call.
And now Sophie’s in my doorway, beaming.
“Can I just say I love living next door to you?”
She laughs.
“Also, Levi offered to drive us to Dallas next week. You still planning to go home?”
“Girl. Yes. Send me your flights, and I’ll make sure mine work for your drive.”
“One condition. You have to ride shotgun.”
