— Chapter 40 —
Justin is dead to the world when I wake up, making that funny click in his throat that happens when he sleeps on his back. He doesn’t even move when I get out of bed to pee. But I worry if I try to climb back into bed, I’ll wake him. I stand in the doorway of the bedroom and watch him for signs of stirring. There are none. One of his hands is resting on his chest. He’ll wake up with pins and needles in his fingers. I think about trying to move his hand, but I’m sure it would startle him. I leave to avoid the temptation.
I decide to shower so we can clear out faster once he does wake up. It takes forever for the water to get warm, which seems so strange to me, since it doesn’t start from cold pipes like it does up north. Once the water is warm, I’m lazy about it, humming to myself, taking the time to shave my legs with soap and everything, instead of a few swipes of dry razor on wet skin. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Margo would say. Justin’s been using water and electricity like nobody’s business, so it doesn’t even make sense for me to scrimp. I use the Paul Mitchell stuff on the side of the tub to shampoo twice and I let the conditioner sit in my hair for two minutes like the bottle says, counting a hundred and twenty Mississippis to time it.
When I get out of the shower, Justin is awake, sitting on the bed. He hangs up the phone.
“You used the phone?” I say.
“Yeah.” His voice is gruff. He’s not making eye contact.
“Who did you call?” I’m hoping it was just to get the surf report or find out movie times. Nondescript. Local.
“My dad,” he says.
“Oh.” I try to play it cool while my heart flops like a fresh-caught fish. It’ll show up on the phone bill. It’ll raise suspicion and give them a place to start looking.
“This isn’t your uncle’s house,” he says. It’s not a question. He’s sure.
He points to a picture on the dresser. I hadn’t noticed it before. We hadn’t noticed it before. A family on the beach. Mother, father, daughter, son, like a perfect dollhouse set. Their brown skin is warm and beautiful against the sand. They look nothing like me.
I could invent family connections to make it right. There’s no saying I couldn’t be their cousin. But I feel so suddenly tired. I am out of story to spin. “No,” I say, “it isn’t.”
“How did you know the code to get in?” he says. Dull eyes; he’s done.
I shake my head. If I talk, I’ll cry.
“My dad is buying me a ticket,” he says. He clenches his jaw. I can see the muscles move.
I don’t try to convince him to stay. I don’t want to hear all his reasons for leaving. I see them on his face. It’s more than just the house.
“I have to get to the airport,” he says.
I don’t point out how his kind of broke is not the same as mine. How he can get off this ride with a phone call. Our words don’t mean the same things. He doesn’t care anyway. I’ve fallen apart for him. The same way he’s fallen apart for me. But it hurts worse because I tried so hard to keep him together.
He goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. I want to leave. Let him find his own way to the airport, see at least a little bit of struggle. But I don’t. I sit on the bed next to his bag. It smells like him. That mix of boy and college. The zipper isn’t closed all the way. I take one of his shirts. A long-sleeve blue one with NOFX written on the front the right way and backward on the back, like you can see through the person wearing it all the way to the underside of the letters. I take it out just to smell it, but then I hear him flush the toilet, wash his hands. Instead of putting it back in his bag, I shove it in mine. I don’t even know why I want it. He’s expensive and loud and he listens to awful music and can’t make do with what we have. It’s stupid to want him around anyway.
— Chapter 41 —
The airport is all the way in Tampa. About sixty miles. I measure on the map with a strand of my hair before we leave. He gets in the car while I put the key back in the lockbox. He doesn’t look at me when I get in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t play his mixtapes. Road noise, breathing. He pretends to read the owner’s manual for my car, flipping pages faster than the words could register. Then he just looks out the window, and that’s worse. Head turned away from me like he’s trying to pretend I don’t exist.
Finally, finally, he says, “It’s this exit coming up. Thirty-nine.”
I nod and change lanes. “What time is your flight?” I ask.