Page 63 of Unmanageable

“You know you’re writing on a postcard, right?” I say, leaning in slightly. “Not drafting a new constitution.”

“I’m creating a historical record,” he mutters without looking up.

“You’re writing with a pen attached to a bead chain from a gas station.”

“History doesn’t care about the quality of the pen, Scottie,” he fires back, his hand flying across the paper.

“Your handwriting suggests history might.”

He stops, looking genuinely offended. “Hey. My penmanship is classic.”

“Your penmanship is a crime scene,” I retort, but I can’t quite hide my grin.

He narrows his eyes at me and goes right back to writing. I glance over at his postcard, trying to squint past his elbow.

“Don’t even think about looking,” he warns, shifting his shoulder to block me.

“I wasn’t,” I lie smoothly.

“You absolutely were.”

“I was evaluating your writing process.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” I say, sticking my tongue out at him.

I roll my eyes and turn back to my own postcard, hunching my shoulders to shield it from view. For once, we sit in silence without it being a battle.

Just two people at a rest-stop counter, writing down a day we’ll pretend later wasn’t important.

When I’m done, I flip it face down and slide it away from the edge before he can catch a glimpse. He does the exact same thing a second later, tucking his away with a quiet slide.

Two postcards. Two secrets we’re too cowardly to say out loud.

And somehow, sitting right here beside him, it feels like the only way that makes sense.

I climb back into the passenger seat of the van, the vinyl hot against my thighs. He looks over at me before he puts it in gear, his eyes clear and full of that bright, ridiculous energy that makes me feel like I’m fifteen years old again.

“Washington, Scottie-girl?” he asks softly, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Washington, Finny,” I say, shaking my head. “And fold your pants when we get there. Seriously.”

17

Scottie Reed

5:34 AM

Cash: morning, beautiful

Me: Fuck off.

***

The lime-green tennis ball hits the brick wall six inches from my left ear.

Thwack.