Page 93 of In Your Wake

Logan grunts noisily. “Bah, fucking Allemagne. Tabarnak, Adams. You aren’t going to fucking Germany and you know it.”

I drop my head. Phil’s been radio silent, which I guess means no one’s biting, so I have no clue what I’m doing yet. My mind should be made up by now, but it’s like every time I think I’m making a decision, a wrench gets thrown into my plans. My life is so messed up; I refuse to add one more thing to the pile.

Still, for the first time in weeks, my future doesn’t feel like a brick wall, just a foggy road I can’t fully see, but know is out there.

“Okay, let me think about it.”

“Yes!” he exclaims.

“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say I’d do it.”

“That means yes in Mitch language.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“You will. I’m already designing the merch.”

“If you put my face on a mug, I’m suing you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Good night, podcast partner. Give my love to your family. And my best to your dad.”

“Will do. Kisses to la famille. Go buy your bird feeder, old man.”

Logan laughs before hanging up. I lower the phone slowly, staring out into the rain again.

His idea sounds ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

But then why does it also make so much sense?

I guess what they say is true: sometimes, one door closes and another one opens.

19

Day Trip

Mitch

Even from fifty feet away, Spencer’s golden locks glimmer in the sunlight.

“I’m here. I’m here,” I say, breathless, running up the dock.

“Thought you might not make it,” he says, giving me a side hug, but there’s a slight pause, as if he’s holding it for a few seconds more than he usually would.

People have been doing that a lot lately.

“Sorry. I slept in.”

“You never sleep in. Who were you really doing?”

I wave him off. He knows Kayla’s been hitting on me. A lot. But he also knows that even though I was interested at first, I’m not anymore and that we never did anything together.

“Getting used to being unemployed,” I answer flippantly as we walk down the dock.

The truth is, last night I drove out to the bluffs and sat in my car, fighting my mind and my body’s desperate need for something to numb the pain.

Since Dad had his stroke, Maxine and I have focused on the inn—plastering, painting, general fixing shit up—as if we’re doing anything to keep from dealing with almost losing Bill. And especially from dealing with what happened while camping or the possibility of what’s budding between us. I’m sure we’re both thinking how at some point we’ll need to deal with it, but we’re both so good at pretending it doesn’t exist.

“What happened to Germany?” he asks.