Page 109 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

She slides a coaster down the bar toward me, her expression going somber. My stomach lurches as I reach for it, my fingertips grazing it just enough to grab hold and pull it in the rest of the way. I know my sister, and somber is not in her normal repertoire. Whatever this coaster holds isn’t good.

Picking it up, I suck in a breath, then turn to look at Brandt. Party Mode logo on one side, Brenna’s handwriting is scribbled on the other. And my heart stops.

Driving Mell to Texas. Back in a few days. Don’t text or call. I don’t want to hear it.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t do much to stop the room from spinning. I hold out the coaster to Brandt, letting him take it, since I’m sure the message is just as much for him as it is for me. Probably more. He was who she fought with. Then again, I’m what they fought about.

Shit…

Spinning on my heel, I walk back outside, hoping the sun will do something to make me feel better. It doesn’t. All it does it make me overheat, the stickiness of the August humidity tacking on to add to the misery,

“Milo…” Willa says, her voice soft.

I don’t respond. There isn’t anything to say. She doesn’t want to hear from me. I knew from the start of all of this that getting involved with Brenna was risky business. That there was always the possibility of it going south or her choosing to leave town. What I didn’t realize in all that was just how bad it would hurt.

“Guess who,” Willa whispers, wrapping her arms around my waist from behind, resting her head against my back, squeezing.

The move is a game we used to play when she was little, one neither of us has used in a long, long time. And it works, my insides easing ever so lightly, the corner of my mouth tipping into a smile. Because for all her strength and snark, Willa is still that same sweet little girl on the inside. At least with me. And that sweet little sister knew exactly what I needed.

I clasp my hands over hers, returning the gesture. We stay like this for a moment, letting the silence surround us, same as we did a few months ago sitting on her couch. Although, back then, Willa was a much bigger mess than I am. She was numb after her blowup with Nash. I’m not numb; I can feel this. Not sure what this is, but I can feel it.

Twisting, I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull Willa in for a side hug.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“You helped me figure my shit out; I’m here to help you figure yours out.”

I smile, thankful for a family who is never short on support. “So you wanna help win back the girl?”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you lost the girl. But yes.”

30

BRENNA

Fourteen hours in a car is a long time. No matter how you cut it.

Especially while listening to show tunes.

Somewhere around the Alabama-Mississippi line, Mell and I finally convinced her mother to give up on Rodgers and Hammerstein and at least move on to Andrew Lloyd Webber. Sans Cats. We vetoed Cats pretty quickly. Silently, we held out hope that we would eventually make it to something like Rent or Wicked, knowing that Hamilton was probably completely out of the question.

Mrs. Quinn is a purist after all.

Two days here, a day to get Mell settled back into base housing, and I’m still just as unsure as I was when I called Mell asking if her offer to crash her road trip was legit. Knowing that I have two more days in the car back home with Mrs. Quinn is not helping me figure out anything. Neither is the sheer exhaustion that comes with a road trip that is about as last-minute as they come.

And essentially one giant hissy fit.

The cheap throw pillow crushes under me as I crash backward against the couch in Mell’s barren living room. Boxes are strewn everywhere, and it will take her at least a week to get through it all, but for now, the major, I-can’t-live-without-it stuff is unpacked. I don’t bother pulling the pillow out from behind me, instead opting to rearrange myself, trying to find a position that’s at least semicomfortable as I wallow.

Tapping my phone to life, I pull up social media, giving it a quick scroll. I’m not sure what I expect to find—something, anything that will take my mind off my own personal mess—but there isn’t anything waiting for me but the personal highlight reels of what seems to be my every acquaintance. Part of me feels like I should be joining in. Posting my big news about passing the NAPLEX and where I’m headed next.

And then I remember that I don’t know the latter part of that news. Because what had seemed like such a simple answer—all the things I wanted being handed to me on the silver platter as Mell put it—was turned upside down in an instant.

My phone buzzes in my hand, the little notification sliding down from the top of the screen catching me off guard. What I don’t know is if it’s the person texting me or the text itself that’s more confusing.

Willa

Checking in!