If it was just me I was concerned about, I’d take my chances with ex-fiancé roulette. But Truman? For my dog? I’d do anything McCarthy says, even—gulp—tell him he’s right and I’m wrong.
The car’s definitely getting closer. It’s going slower this time, though.
My finger hovers over the green call button under McCarthy’s name. He’ll come if I call him. Even if the ferry isn’t running and it’s the middle of the night and I’m on a remote island, he’ll come rescue me. I know it deep in my bones.
It’s terrifying, that certainty.
A tinny horn sounds, and Cher, the old yellow VW bus with its faded flower mural, trundles down the dark road to pull up alongside me.
Truman barks happily as the window cranks down.
“Jenna!”
“Zephyr?”
“Old Al at the ferry called and said he saw you come in. You didn’t tell your mom you were coming to stay. She and your great-grandma will be so happy to see you!”
Zephyr is chatty and friendly as he helps me load my suitcases and boxes and bags.
My arms ache from tugging the heavy load.
“Nathan didn’t disappear into the woods to use the little boys’ room, did he?” Zephyr jokes as I slam Cher’s door shut.
Truman perches on the dashboard, tail wagging.
Zephyr turns down the Grateful Dead music.
Oh, he’s not joking, I realize. He seriously thinks Nathan is out there.
“So, Nathan and I are, um…” I make an X with two fingers.
“Say no more.” Zephyr stamps on the clutch, and Cher lurches. “Your granny will be pleased. She was hoping you’d ditch him for the handsome and wealthy Mr. Svensson.”
“Don’t call him that. It sounds like a Jane Austen novel.” I groan. “I would never look that good in an empire waist.”
“Really?” Zephyr grins. He’s clothed today, at least; I recognize my mother’s weaving. “Because with the way Granny Mavis talks, he basically has an aristocratic title.”
“McCarthy is the furthest thing from a cultured aristocrat you will ever meet.” Crossing my arms, I stare out the dark window.
Zephyr makes a humming noise as we pull down the driveway.
“Your mom made foraged-mushroom crostini,” he says conversationally.
My stomach grumbles. For all her craziness, my mom is a good cook.
Truman hops out of the car as Zephyr helps me with my bags.
I steel myself on the front porch.
“Your great-grandmother’s been drinking,” he whispers to me, “so don’t worry, you won’t be the main attraction tonight.”
Zephyr hasn’t been around that long. In my family? I am always the main attraction, whether I like it or not.
The room is packed with senior citizens itching for real drama, not wondering which chicken is going to get lost under the cabin’s crawl space.
“My baby! Jenna-bug is moving home!” My mom sweeps me into a hug and plants kisses all over my face. It’s clear she’s been hitting the mead a little hard tonight too. “We’re going to bake and weave and moon bathe and make flower crowns.”
Mercifully, a cup of mead is shoved in my hand—the drink is a cloudy deep-amber color and reeks of alcohol.
