Page 298 of What We Burn

“Yes, we did,” I confirm, to which Jamie makes a hmmm noise.

As we drive along, I lean my head against the seat and let the buzz of the tequila settle into my limbs and plaster a goofy smile on my face.

“Today was really great,” I say.

“It was. But you should drink some water,” Jamie says. “There’s a bottle in the glove box. Your guys trusted me with their girl. I don’t want to bring you home sloppy drunk.”

“But they like me sloppy!”

“Oh my God, TMI, girl!”

I reach for the glove box and pop it open. Sure enough there’s a bottle of water inside.

“Oh, wow. I’m giving this Uber five stars.” I crack the seal on it and drink.

“Good girl,” Jamie says, and I glance at him and frown.

“No, absolutely hard pass.”

He laughs. “Not our dynamic?”

“Not even close,” I say, bursting into laughter while he starts singing at the top of his lungs.

He cuts himself off mid-chorus and flicks on his indicator.

“Actually,” he says, “I need to make a super quick stop. Like, two minutes. Maybe three.”

I turn my head. “What kind of stop?”

“I’m house-sitting right now and if I don’t let the dog out, she’s going to destroy the place.”

“Of course. No problem.” I open my eyes and sit up. “Wait. Is that what you do for money? House-sitting?”

“Sure is.”

“Oh, shit. You know, I just realized—I never asked what you do for work. Or where you live. God, I’m the worst friend.”

“You’re not the worst friend. You’ve had a lot going on.” He takes the exit, turning onto a road that runs along the coast. “Most of the people I house-sit for don’t like me having visitors, so I don’t bring it up. It’s fine. I love being a man of mystery.”

“A man of mystery who drives a Civic and makes playlists called Margarita Energy.”

“See? I’m like the West Coast James Bond.”

I laugh, reach for the water bottle and take another long sip. The tequila must have been stronger than I thought, because there’s a heaviness behind my eyes now, and a softness at the edges of my vision.

I blink. The road blurs for a second, then sharpens, then blurs again.

I swipe a hand across my face to try and wake myself up, and I accidentally bump the cameo at my neck. It reminds me to pull out my phone and text the guys that we’re making a detour so they don’t worry. When I unlock my cell, the screen is too bright, and I squint at it, my thumb clumsy on the glass.

That’s when I see it.

A text notification. Right above the last group-chat thumbs up after my check-in, received forty-seven minutes ago. I got it while I was at the restaurant, laughing about salsa rankings and label makers.

It’s from Brock’s number.

My heart stops. Literally, physically stops. There’s a gap in the rhythm, a skipped beat that I feel in my throat and my wrists and the pit of my stomach.

Tyler is dead.