Page 112 of Within These County Lines

By his side. As much as I could.

But before I can say a word, he takes the conversation somewhere else.

“Could you help me out with something before the end of summer?” he asks, pushing his food basket forward, only scattered bits of his burger bun left.

I nod, swallowing a fry. “Yeah, with what?”

“I think I’ve thought of another way to communicate.” He exhales.

I tilt my head. “Communicate?” “With someone other than you and Dara.” He looks out the window where the sun catches his eyes. Brown. “With my mom.”

His request gives me full-body chills. My jaw locks.

“I’ll write down what you can tell her,” he continues. “If you’re up for it.”

I nod with a tight expression. “I am. But what made you change your mind? The other night, you didn’t want to see her.”

“That was before our sleepover.”

His voice is quiet. I reach across the table for his hand. He takes my index finger and traces the lines along my knuckle.

“I didn’t realize how much I needed to be held,” he says. “I’ve learned to cope with being alone, you know? There’s always places to go or another book to read. Things to fill the time.” He shrugs. “But feeling lonely never goes away. It hits me at random times. Like on the drive to a concert when I have to pull over and cry. Or in the middle of a book chapter when I zone out for who knows how long, only to come back when the pages are soaked with my tears.” He squeezes my palm. “You made it go away. That night. With that hug.”

I can’t sit across from him any longer. I scooch out of my booth and join his side, draping an arm around his shoulders and resting my other on his thigh.

“I want to give my mom a hug with my words,” he whispers. “It’s all I can do at this point. She’s been waiting for that moment for so long, just how I’ve been waiting for my moment with you.”

A lump rises in my throat. I’m grateful I didn’t break the news to him about me leaving just now. I want to do this first.

“I’m here for you,” I say.

He nods. “I was hoping by the end of the summer I’d be able to hug her in person, but this will have to do.” His shoulders sag. He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and slides it toward me. “This is what I have to say.”

I unfold the letter carefully, my fingers trembling as I read his words.

“How will she know I’m not making this up?” I ask.

“There are a few things I wrote that only she and I would know.”

I nod and fold the paper like it’s something sacred. “Will you come with me?” I ask.

“I’ll take you to my house, but I’d like to stay in the car when you go inside, if that’s okay with you.”

I rub his thigh. “This is your thing. It’s totally okay with me.”

He softly pushes his forehead against mine. We share breath, until one too many curious stares from other diners force us out the door.

We arrive at Xander’s childhood home just before dusk. His house is pressed up against the sound barrier that separates his neighborhood from the freeway. The view from the back windows must make the house feel like a jail cell, with no view but a gray slab of concrete.

“I’ll leave the engine on so you can have the air conditioning,” I say.

He nods, avoiding eye contact. “Come back out if she gets weird,” he says. “I can always find another way.”

I grip his forearm. “I got this. Sit tight.”

As soon as I exit the truck, I realize the sound barrier doesn’t block much of anything. Honking horns, revving engines, and screeching tires ricochet from the other side of the wall onto the front lawn. The air reeks of engine exhaust, drowning out the usual summer scents of cut grass and barbecue smoke. I steady my breathing and step onto an uneven brick pathway leading to the front porch.

I ring the doorbell.