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Chapter 41
Brush-Off
Ivy:Still nothing?
Me:Nothing.
Ivy:Did he read it?
Me:I don’t know. It just says delivered.
Hours have passed since I texted Noah.
The car rounds a bend, blinding me with the setting sun and making my head spin. I swing the visor down and watch the road. I’m doubting the sanity of driving straight through. When we decided to go for it, it sounded like an adventure. Three young, healthy adults to share eighteen hours of driving? Easy.
Except now I’m ready to be anywhere but in a car.
Regardless, Marcus has to work tomorrow morning. Devin and I are just along to facilitate his safe arrival.
Slap!
When I look toward the sound, Devin is leaning into the steering wheel, glassy eyes blinking rapidly, a red mark that looks like fingers surfacing on his cheek.
“Hey, Dev,” I say, “how about you find a nice turnout and I’ll drive?”
“Oh good. I’m dying here,” he says, coming to an abrupt stop in what is more a slight widening of the two-lane road than an actual turnout.
Marcus, formerly asleep in the back seat, pops up with a curse. “What?”
“Devin’s sleepy,” I explain, climbing across the middle as Dev runs around the front of Marcus’s aged Jeep Cherokee. I buckle into the driver’s seat and check my mirrors, praying no crazies come whipping up behind us before Dev gets in and I can get us back on the road.
Marcus rubs at his eyes. “Dude!” he says when Devin slams the door and I stomp on the gas. “You gotta be nicer to Cher. She’s old.”
“Sorry.” Devin yawns, leaning against the passenger window.
In the rearview mirror I see Marcus frown. “You okay to drive?”
My assent encourages him to lie back down, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the rural highway for company. The road is far too quiet to shut out the worry, so I get Devin to start an audiobook for me and cross my fingers that the plot will be intense enough to override my worry.
My phone buzzes a few times, but when the road is straight enough to hazard a glance, I can see that all the texts are from Ivy. Hours pass, Marcus takes over driving, and still there is nothing from Noah. I haul myself into bed sometime after one in the morning, convinced he won’t be texting back.
I leave my ringer on, just in case.
I don’t think I even move until I wake up a little after ten to Mom’s ringtone and the sun in my eyes. There are several older notifications from her below the one that woke me up—probably because I forgot to text her when I got home—and one from Ivy in the mix, but when I see the banner at the bottom, I nearly drop my phone.
It’s a text from Noah.
My fumbling fingers get the code wrong twice before my phone finally unlocks. Crossing my fingers that the news is good, I take a deep breath, open the message, and read.
He’s out of the coma and doing better. Thanks for asking.
A wave of relief flows over me. Noah’s brother is recovering. I send a prayer of thanks heavenward and read the message again, thumbs ready to reply, but something about the tone stops me.
Thanks for asking.
What does that mean?
Hours later, I’m still trying to figure it out.
