Page 109 of Within These County Lines

“Apology accepted. And then you need to give me twenty dollars for pain and suffering.”

“Are you serious?”

“No. I make more money than you do.”

I shake my head. “Where are you posting up?”

“Outside the salon. The old ladies are always very generous because they knew Grandma.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

“Don’t take too long.”

I shift in my seat. “Actually, Whitley, before we meet, I have something to tell you.”

I need to be up-front about her dad’s letter. Otherwise, my apology is meaningless, like watering a dead flower.

Be up-front. Be honest.

She groans. “Are we seriously only going to be friends again for five seconds?”

I sigh. “I hope not.” I scratch the back of my head. “For some reason, your dad wrote my second letter of recommendation. I never asked him to! I swear. I don’t know why he did it and I—”

“Stetson, you idiot. I wrote that.”

My jaw drops. “You . . . what?”

“I wasn’t going to let Victor ruin our road trip. There are only so many people who will look after you besides yourself. My dad is not one. Neither is Murray. And neither is Victor. I knew that the moment we met him. If we don’t have each other in this town, then we have no one.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. “Whitley, I don’t deserve you.”

“Yeah, I know. But you sure as hell need me.”

The salon is about half a podcast episode away from home. I park along an alley, then sprint toward Main, my shoes stumbling over the bumpy brick sidewalk. The summer grass has conquered the century-old path, forcing its way through every cracked joint. By the time I turn the corner, I’m sweating.

Then I trip over an empty clarinet case. My arms flail as I lurch forward, barely catching myself before my face meets a brick wall.

“Stetson!”

I turn.

Whitley stands behind a white mop bucket full of change and crumpled dollar bills. Her clarinet is pressed to her lips. Her eyes widen before she cuts her song short with a sharp, awkward note.

“You scared me,” she says, clutching her instrument. “I thought you were a thief coming for my money.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I pull her into the tightest hug I can muster. And I don’t let go.

Her shoulders shake beneath my hands, and her whole body is solid, real, and grounding like a life preserver, because that’s what she is for me. My lifesaver. She kept me afloat all summer, hell, my whole time on earth.

If Louise Gregor and Abigail Mattson came to me in a dream and offered me a spell to start new anywhere in the world, I’d decline. Because I wouldn’t risk missing the exceptionalism of Whitley Wyomen.

“Stetson, I can’t breathe,” she chokes. “Let go of me.”

I loosen my grip, my chin still resting on her bony shoulder. For a time, everything on Main Street looks normal. Two boys lick ice-cream cones on a nearby bench. A man in a hard hat and orange vest leans against a lamppost. An elderly woman disappears into the antique store.

And Whitley and I stand here, just a girl and a boy who want more, who want to reach the next intersection beyond Penango’s single stoplight.

“Thank you, Whitley,” I whisper.