Page 107 of Within These County Lines

A moment later, the response comes:

Mr. Wyomen. It’s a glowing recommendation.

45

Why the hell would Mr. Wyomen write me a letter of recommendation?

I turn the thought over in my mind on the drive home from work. Victor must have told him about it, probably to show off, but then Mr. Wyomen took it one step further, writing the letter himself to win bonus points and snag Whitley’s attention. It’s the only logical explanation.

And honestly? I don’t really care why he did it.

If it’s convincing and already submitted to the scholarship committee like my counselor said, then that’s good enough for me. But I’m afraid Whitley will care. She’ll see it as a betrayal, as me conspiring against her with her dad. And if she thinks that, it will only push us further apart.

At night, I spread out at the kitchen table to research our road trip. If I can’t turn back time to coyote hunt, I can at least prove that I’m still committed to our plan. That our escape from Penango is still one of my top priorities.

I devour online videos, skim best-of lists for every state on our itinerary, and queue up podcasts about the Shenandoah, New River Gorge, Mammoth Cave, and Great Smoky Mountains National Parks as if I’m writing a history paper on the American south.

My Appalachian podcasts might not have helped break the curse, but they definitely made me aware of obscure mountain sites no one would visit except for two kids who don’t have a clue what they’re doing.

Every few moments, my mind drifts back to Whitley. Alone for the past two weeks. In pain, walking around with a broken ankle. It makes my head spin.

She’s the one who ended up as the lonely scarecrow, left in a field, picked at, prodded, and abandoned by everyone she trusts, while I had Xander. I should have been the one facing summer alone with the way I acted, not her. This won’t erase what happened, but it’s a starting point. I want to show her that she’s not forgotten.

By the time my vision blurs from staring at the screen, I have enough of a plan to share. So the next morning I do what I should have done days ago.

I call Whitley.

“What?” she answers quickly. There’s a rush of background noise on her end, wind, static, and a distant blare of a car horn.

Sounds of a highway.

My stomach flips. What if she’s already left for school and she’s doing the road trip solo?

“Hey,” I say. “Where are you?”

“Driving. Why?”

“It sounds loud.”

“I’m on the freeway.”

“Where are you going?” I bite my fingernails.

“Why all the questions? Since when do you care what I’m doing?”

I rub my brow. “I’m calling to apologize.” She mumbles something I can’t understand. “Whitley?”

“Okay, good.” She sniffs. Her voice uneven. “Because otherwise I was sending you to voicemail. And I don’t listen to those.”

I let out a weak laugh, then exhale. “I don’t know where to start, but everything was a mess this summer,” I continue. “I’ve never broken up with someone before. I’ve never gone to college or worked full-time. I’ve never been . . . kind of invisible.” I pause. “It’s not an excuse, but that’s why I slipped up. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was in too deep. I’m sorry.”

I suck in a breath.

“Yup,” Whitley finally speaks. “Go on.”

“I should’ve been there for Bennie. But most importantly, I should’ve been there for you.”

A turn signal clicks through my phone.