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Holden grins at me, a carefree one that lightens a little of the weight on my chest. Lately, it’s felt like all of our conversations have been heavy. Like there are storm clouds following us around. Right now, his eyes are clear and bright. Blue skies.
“See ya, Sanderson.”
“Bye,” Robby calls after us through a mouthful of cereal.
“Seriously, where are we going?” I ask Holden once we’re outside.
“I have a plan,” he tells me, confident.
I stare at him as we walk toward his truck. “Aplan? I told you I was coming over, what? Ten minutes ago?”
“You’re skipping class, flower. That’s rarer than a national holiday. I’ve had an idea in mind since freshman year, just in case.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious right now or not.”
Another grin, as he unlocks his truck. “You trust me, right?”
“You know I do,” I grumble.
“Then get in. Let’s celebrate.”
I climb into the passenger side. “Celebratewhat?”
“Just celebrate.”
“I haven’t felt like celebrating much lately,” I say.
He reaches over and squeezes my thigh before backing out of the driveway. “That’s exactly why we should.”
I try to guess our destination based on the turns Holden takes, but we’re quickly past the immediate town and driving on back roads I don’t recognize. The radio playing quietly in the background and the distant hum of road noise are the only sounds.
Holden doesn’t ask why I’m skipping class for the first time ever.
Doesn’t bring up going back to Pembrooke this weekend, which I still haven’t given him a final answer on and am even more conflicted about after getting Regan’s text.
Doesn’t wonder if I’ve heard from Sydney or my mom.
Everything gets left behind us, only a comfortable silence filling the truck’s cab.
We drive for almost an hour before Holden turns off the highway. There’s no chance I’m not missing my afternoon class too, and I can’t bring myself to care. I don’t email my professor with a made-up excuse or text anyone asking them to take notes. I pretend there’s nothing I had to do today and nothing I need to worry about.
I’m not expecting to see the water appear ahead. But it’s suddenly there in a shimmering blue spread, the surface a few shades darker than the sky.
Holden parks in the lot beside the dock and glances over at me. Grins, at what I’m guessing is a startled expression.
I glance at the sign that readsLake Champlain Ferry.
“We’re going out on a boat?”
“Yep. Come on.”
Holden’s excitement is obvious and genuine as we approach the boat. There are only a few people in line to board ahead of us, tourist season probably at its tail end. He shows the attendant something on his phone screen and then we’re ushered onto the metal walkway that connects the dock to the boat. It creaks ominously as I head toward the deck, water sloshing the shore beneath the silver rungs.
Once on board, I turn toward the left, figuring the front will offer the best view. Holden is right behind me.
We stand at the railing, looking out at the water and the greenery lining the lake’s shore. Here and there is a splash of autumn color, a few patches of leaves losing chlorophyll early.
There’s commotion on the dock as the crew prepares to depart. I rest my elbows on the railing, looking out at the water. If I had to describe a place that brings me peace, I’d say the animal shelter. When I’m there, I feel like my actions matter, like I’m making a difference. The scratch of excited paws against linoleum, the smell of the cleaning supplies used to sanitize everything, the feel of soft fur, it all soothes me.
