Page 31 of Within These County Lines

“Stetson, do you want to live in an off-campus apartment at Penango College in the fall with Murray?” Whitley asks, her shoulders deflating.

I hesitate. If I tell him that I haven’t gotten my financial aid yet, he’ll never leave me alone. It’ll be an opening, another chance for him to dig in and keep me stuck in this conversation.

Murray gives her a thumbs-up. “Yeah, you could say it direct like that. Holler when he responds.”

“I’m not staying with you, Murray,” I repeat.

He ignores me, again, and walks north toward town. “If he does say no,” he calls over his shoulder, “I’d love to see him before he leaves for Tennessee. Just one more time.”

Whitley plants her hand on her hip. “Murray Mifflin, are you drunk right now?”

He laughs. “I wish I was. It would make this whole breakup a hell of a lot easier.”

She scoffs. “Stop being a baby and use your damn eyes. He’s right here in the drive.”

“Funny joke,” he mutters.

Heat flares through me like a bomb detonating in my chest.

Does he really not see me? A horrible thought enters my head. Could I be invisible like Xander?

“Murray!” I shout, stepping forward. “Stop!”

But he doesn’t stop. His ears don’t twitch. His head doesn’t turn. He keeps walking like I never spoke.

Like I don’t exist.

I stand frozen, watching him disappear beyond the evergreen trees.

My voice shakes. “Whitley, am I standing in the driveway?” I ask.

“You sure are,” she says. “And he just ignored the hell out of you.”

Something sinks in my gut like I’ve jumped off a twenty-foot-high diving board. I lift my hands in front of my face, turning them slowly, inspecting every crease, scar, hair, and piece of me that suddenly doesn’t feel like mine.

“Enough killing time,” Whitley says, tossing me her rifle. Then she digs into her pocket and pulls out a box of ammo. “We have a coyote to kill. Load that up. I’m going to get my other gun.”

She disappears inside the house and leaves me alone beneath the looming mountains. I press my shoes into the loose gravel, listening to the crackle of stone against concrete. The sound steadies me, my breath slows.

A truck rumbles past. The driver, a stranger, grips the steering wheel tightly. I hesitate, then lift a reluctant hand to wave. He nods in return, like he can see me. It lightens the tension in my muscles.

This purgatory started with Xander. Now Murray.

To one I exist. To the other, I don’t.

If heartbreak is what killed me, then I must be on my way to hell.

16

After a string of failed coyote hunts with Whitley, it’s time for real answers. I don’t even think I was much help to her anyway because I was too distracted by one question.

Can Murray Mifflin still see me?

I reverse out of Whitley’s driveway and head for Latitudes Avenue—Murray’s home address. It’s the oldest road in Penango, tucked just off Main Street. A mile in, the river appears through my passenger-side window, its slow-moving water a familiar backdrop.

Soon, stately homes emerge from between the trees. Most are white, but one is stone, another pale yellow. They all have too many windows to count. Their wraparound porches stretch like endless boardwalks, draped in hanging plants, American flags, and wind chimes like they’re stuck in an eternal Fourth of July.

I pull up to 1109 and spot the dim glow of blue light seeping through the only arched window in the front of the house—Murray’s room. I wait and watch for a silhouette to cross the light.