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He turns to Johnny. “You’ll call me if you need me?”
Johnny nods and steps toward Bram.
But Johnny is lying. He’s already put Bram in too much danger involving him at all, and he won’t continue to risk his safety any more.
Bram envelopes Johnny into his arms, his eyes glistening with all the things he wants to say. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Johnny palms Bram’s back, struggling to maintain his own emotions. “Yeah.”
Their moment is brief, but powerful.
My heart constricts at the enormous love these two have for each other.
All three of us walk to the door, Johnny leading up the rear at a little slower pace. How he’s up walking around, I’ll never know. It’s probably all adrenaline and fear.
Bram plants his hand on Johnny’s shoulder one last time. He looks to me, then to Johnny, and takes his leave.
We stand there in the doorway, Johnny hidden from sight behind me, watching Bram walk away. He never turns around; he doesn’t glance over his shoulder one last time. He just keeps going, one step after another, until there’s no more of him, until he’s gone.
“I have to do this,” Johnny says through gritted teeth.
“I don’t doubt you.”
“This is the only way.”
I turn to him, wishing like hell I could take away every ounce of his suffering. “I know.”
* * *
We’re only on the road for a few hours when I glance in the rearview mirror and notice the sweat beading along Johnny’s brow.
I look over my shoulder, confirming my suspicions. I try to reach back and feel for him myself, but I struggle to crane my arm all the way. I let out a breath, gripping the steering wheel and focusing ahead on the signs we pass.
There isn’t another rest stop for almost fifty miles, and we’re pretty much in the middle of fucking nowhere. A few cars litter the highway going in each direction, but otherwise, it’s fairly empty. A whoosh of air hits the side of Beth’s bright red BMW, throwing my attention to the semi that’s passing us in the left lane.
Once it’s just a blur in the distance, I check behind us again. Not a pair of headlights in sight, only a little bit of illumination from our own rear-end on the road.
We’re eighty-three miles from our first stop, but with the uncertainty of Johnny’s health, I find myself slowing down, signaling, and pulling off onto the shoulder. I make sure to get as far to the right as I can without going too much in the grass along the road. I push the button to put the sports car in park and reposition myself in the seat to take a better look.
Johnny stirs, but otherwise doesn’t wake up. There’s a pained expression on his face, one that I’d give anything to erase.
I carefully rest the back of my hand against his forehead, noting the damp warmth of his skin. I shift my body around to the front, poking a few things on the dash to get the air conditioning flowing toward him. I reach around, pointing the vents at him, and hope the cool air will ease his discomfort.
He mumbles something under his breath, and his eyes flutter open. His pupils take a second to adjust to the darkness and settle on me. “Claire, what’s wrong?” His voice cracks, and he struggles to sit up.
“Shh, it’s okay. Stay down.” My intentions weren’t to wake him, but to make sure he was okay. This entire thing is uncharted territory to me, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to make a mistake and put him in any more danger than he already is.
“Are we there?” He blinks through the dark.
“No.” I shake my head. “You were…I thought you were running a fever.”
Why am I so ashamed of being worried about him? Maybe it’s because every single little thing out of place sets me on edge. It’s difficult to determine which threats are worthy of our attention or not.
Johnny wipes at his brow, a bit of his own embarrassment settling in his features. “I’m fine.”
We’re on opposite ends of the spectrum—me overly concerned and him blowing things off completely. There needs to be some kind of balance between us, so we don’t overlook something that is an actual concern.
“Really.” He throws the cover off of him and sits up in the small back seat. Johnny holds his stomach, desperately hiding the twisting of his face.
