“Sometimes, I thought of myself as leftovers. The one who got stuck when everyone else moved on.” For some reason, I felt a confession was appropriate.
He inhaled. “You’re not leftovers, Amelia. Not to me.”
Static from the radio tangled with the wind. Neither of us tried to untangle his words.
We drove in silence long enough for the sun to droop lower, the blue of the sky curdling into a sour milk grey. I watched the outlines of passing cars, felt the sensation of moving without ever really getting anywhere, and wondered how far you could run before memory caught you by the ankle and dragged you back.
A motel sign flickered into view, the red vacancy bulbs spelling it out in a language only the lost could read.
Caiden pulled in, killed the engine, and let his hands rest on the wheel. I could feel his body humming, a vibration that traveled through the seats and into my bones.
He stared straight ahead. “You hungry?”
The answer was always yes, but I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Okay,” he said. He kept his hand on the wheel a beat longer, then opened his door. “I’ll get the key.”
I sat there, watching him stride toward the front office, his posture that of a man who’d been fighting uphill for so long he no longer noticed the incline.
The sign on the office door buzzed and flickered, and I wondered what it was like to be so obviously broken and keep shining anyway.
When he came back, he tossed the keycard on my lap. “Room 17,” he said. “End of the lot.”
He lifted the bags from the trunk and led me down the second-floor walkway, the thump of his boots on the metal stairs echoing against the cinderblock walls.
The room was exactly what you’d expect from a roadside motel: scratchy bedspread, TV bolted to the dresser, a vague scent of mildew and disappointment.
Caiden dumped the bags and went straight for the shower. I heard the slap of water against tile, the pipe-shudder of the ancient plumbing, and felt the tension uncoil a little in my spine.
I was grateful for the alone time, but also afraid of what might happen when he came out. Whether he’d reach for me or retreat into himself.
I wanted to text Dante, but I knew I couldn’t just yet. Not when the last thing I’d said to him felt so final.
The bathroom door opened, and Caiden walked out.
His hair was dripping wet, his bare chest had droplets of water still dripping, and he only had a towel around his waist.
We both stared at each other, time stalling out in the heavy, humid air. He stood there, towel barely hitting mid-thigh.
I’d seen him shirtless before, but this was different. We were alone, and grown, and no longer pretending to be anything except exactly what we were.
He seemed to realize all at once that he was nearly naked in front of me, his face coloring up, eyes darting everywhere except my face. “Shit,” he muttered, glancing around the room, “I forgot to grab my clothes before…” He trailed off, shuffling a little towards his duffel, towel threatening mutiny.
I tried not to look but failed spectacularly.
He made it past the foot of the bed, then froze, towel clutched like a lifeline. “You mind?” he asked, chin tilted. Like I was the one who should be embarrassed.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” I said, and my voice came out far too soft, far too open.
He lingered, not moving, and I realized he was daring me to look away. I didn’t. For the first time, I let myself really see him.
He reached into his bag, towel shifting dangerously low.
He didn’t say anything as he found his clothes; black t-shirt, faded shorts, everything still smelling faintly of him. He could have retreated to the bathroom to change, but he didn’t.
He was challenging me, but there was still a taste of nervousness at seeing something for the first time, so I turned around.
He dressed, then ran a hand through his hair, water flicking off the ends. “You want the shower?” he asked, voice even but not quite steady.
