PS: I don’t know if you’re kidding about the essay, but if you aren’t, you should have me read it first. You should probably call me before you write anything about the planet you can’t take back.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: You’re an absolute nightmare
Your tattoo better be “Charlotte Beekman is always right” incurly font. Or maybe wildflowers, like the purple ones that pop up by the lake in the summer. Those always remind me of you.
And this song is OBVIOUSLY something! It’s literally amazing.
Is the bandcalledLemonface? Are we sure about that name?
—Charley
Chapter 8
A Sampling of Balls
Saturday, Now
The truck stopdoor clangs behind me on my way out. I cross the parking lot with my duffel under one arm and a toilet-water-soaked shirt in a plastic bag in the other.
“Don’t say a word,” I demand.
Ethan’s leaning against his van, arms folded. The sun reflecting off the bright white paint casts him in a warm glow and spotlights his utterly deranged grin.
“Don’t,” I repeat, my voice pleading.
“Beekman.” He says my name like a compassionate T-ball coach watching a grounder roll between a pair of children’s cleats. “I would’ve given you something to wear. You didn’t have to…” His eyes are glued to my new white oversized shirt, which reads “SEXY MOTHER TRUCKER” in capital letters.
“There was a mishap with a toilet. I’d rather not get into it.”
The Sydney Sweeney doppelgänger was actually quite helpful in my time of need. When I tiptoed out of the bathroom, still wrapped in my towel, she directed me toward the only rack of T-shirts that weren’t confrontationally patriotic.
I lift my plastic bag. “Should I stick this with the vomit clothes?”
“You fished it out?” He grimaces, and I know for sure that any fleeting moment of physical chemistry next to that shower is long gone.
“Duh, it’s linen.” I yank open one of the rear doors to search around for myself.
“You packed linen for a camping trip?”
I shrug. “It’s summer. I wear linen in the summer. I don’t want you to look at me differently or anything, but I’m fancy now.” I toss my wet hair with an alarming degree of confidence for a woman who just fished her shirt out of a rust-stained toilet bowl.
“Oh, I know it. Here, let me.” He unlatches something on the edge of the other door so both sides can swing open, exposing the mosquito screen that’s protecting a mattress from the elements.
I hadn’t really considered the lack of a traditional trunk. Every square inch of this thing is maximized for living space.
“I rinsed your clothes off at the spigot.” He points to the putrid, rainbow-shaped rust stain on the side of the building. “That should help with the smell, but we’ll have to line-dry them wherever we set up camp. I’ll keep my eye out for a laundromat.”
He pushes and pulls on something in the bed frame until it releases a long, sealed bin.
I’d always assumed that Ethan living out of a van would look more like, well, living out of a van. Messy, aimless, crowded. But Ethan’s world seems intentional and well designed.
“I hate to say it, but I think your laptop might be cooked.”
I laugh grimly. “Paul’s going to love that.”
