It’s been a year since they’ve been like this. Laughing. Joking. Not at each other’s throats.
And I decide that whatever Wilder is hiding, it’s okay. If confiding in Cash made them trust each other again, it’s fine. Really.
“Blondie!” Wilder hollers for me. “Your turn.”
I shake my spray paint—bright pink—and then start writing.
When I stand back, Wilder wraps his arms around me.
Cash wroteNo Turning Backin blue. I wroteNo maps. And in black, Wilder wrote—
“I love you, Ingrid,” I read out loud.
“I do,” he whispers against my ear.
“You were supposed to write something fun,” Cash grumbles.
But staring at those words, I realize that Wilder isn’t like Cash and me. No, he feels things differently.
While we’ve been so focused on running from our problems—Archibald, Fanny, Isla, Jason and Jill—Wilder’s been running to something.
To the future.
With me.
I twist in his arms and face him.
“This was so sweet,” I say.
Cash pretends to vomit.
Instead of saying something, he hands Cash his phone.
“Take a photo of us,” Wilder instructs. “Then we’ll do a group photo.”
Wilder and I stand in front of the Cadillac with our spray-painted words on them.
We smile, arms wrapped around each other, while Cash snaps the photo. Then, we take way too many selfies with Cash.
It feels like old times.
But different somehow.
I still feel like the third wheel—standing on the outside of this lifetime friendship—but connected, too.
I never felt this way when Cash and I were together. He never made me feel as important as Wilder.
But Wilder?
He makes me feel like the most important person in his life.
“I’m thinking burgers and fries for dinner,” Wilder states as we make the long walk back tomy car. “And before you say anything about a fucking salad,” Wilder warns Cash, “you have to at least try a French fry.”
“I’ll have one,” Cash promises.
Wilder yawns. “Good.”
“I’ll drive,” I announce as Cash reaches for the backseat door.
