Regretting You(26)

I wouldn’t have lost my father—the only man I’ve ever loved.

Did they look at Aunt Jenny’s phone? Could they determine she was texting and driving?

If my mother does find out it was because I wanted Aunt Jenny to read my texts and respond to me when I knew she was driving, that will only add to her heartache.

That knowledge makes me not want to be here at a funeral where every single tear being shed inside is all because of me.

“Hey.”

My eyes pop open at the sound of his voice. Miller is standing over me, his hands in the pockets of his pants. I sit up on the bench, straightening out my dress so that it covers my thighs. I’m surprised to see him. He’s wearing a suit. Black on black. I feel terrible that my body can somehow feel this much grief, yet be sparked with a twinge of attraction as soon as Miller is in my presence. I use my palms to wipe tears from my face. “Hi.”

He presses his lips together and looks around, like this is as uncomfortable as I fear it is. “I wanted to stop by. See how you were doing.”

I’m not doing well. Not at all. I want to tell him that, but the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, “I don’t want to be here.” I’m not asking him to take me anywhere. I’m just being honest about what I’m feeling this very moment. But he nudges his head toward the parking lot.

“Then let’s go.”



Miller is driving the old blue truck that was sitting in front of their house the day I dropped him off. I don’t even know what kind of truck it is, but it’s the same color of blue as the sky is right now. The windows are down, so I’m guessing his air conditioner no longer works. Or maybe he just likes to drive with the windows down. I pull my hair up and tie it in a knot so it’ll stop blowing in my face. I tuck flyaways behind my ears and then rest my chin on my arm as I stare out the window.

I don’t ask him where we’re going. I don’t even care. I just know that with every mile he puts between me and that funeral home, I feel more and more pressure release from my chest.

A song plays, and I ask Miller to turn it up. I’ve never heard it before, but it’s beautiful and has nothing to do with any of the thoughts I’m having, and the singer’s voice is so soothing it feels like a bandage. As soon as it ends, I ask him to play it again.

“I can’t,” Miller says. “It’s the radio. Truck is too old for Bluetooth.”

“What was the song?”

“‘Dark Four Door,’ by Billy Raffoul.”

“I liked it.” I look back out the window, just as another song begins to play. I like his taste in music. I wish I could just do this all day, every day. Ride around listening to sad songs while Miller drives. For some reason, sadness in music eases the sadness in my soul. It’s like the worse the heartache in a song is, the better I feel. Dramatic songs are like a drug, I imagine. Really bad for you, but they make you feel good.

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done drugs before, so I’ve never tested that particular comparison. I’ve never even been high. It’s hard to do normal rebellious teenage things when you have two parents who overcompensate for the mistakes they made when they were teenagers.

“You hungry?” Miller asks. “Thirsty?”

I pull away from the window and turn to look at him. “No. I kind of want to get high, though.”

His eyes move swiftly from the road to me. He smiles a little. “I’m sure you do.”

“I’m serious,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I’ve never tried it before, and I really want to get out of my head today. Do you have any weed?”

“No,” he says.

I sink back into my seat, disappointed.

“But I know where you can get some.”



Ten minutes later, he’s pulling up to the local movie theater. He tells me to wait in the truck. I almost tell him never mind, that it was just a random thought. But part of me is curious if it’ll help with the grief. I’ll try anything at this point.

He walks into the theater, and less than a minute later, he’s walking out with a guy who looks a little older than us. Maybe in his twenties. I don’t recognize him. They walk to the guy’s car, and within fifteen seconds, cash and weed are exchanged. Just like that. It seems so easy yet fills me with a nervous energy. It’s not legal in Texas, and even if it were, Miller is only seventeen.

Not to mention, he has a brand-new dashcam in this old truck. I’m positive the dashcam didn’t catch the transaction, but if he were to be arrested right now, the police would search his truck and probably watch the video and hear that the drugs are for me.

My knee is bouncing nervously when Miller climbs back into his truck.

He drives to the side of the movie theater and faces the road so that we can see the entire parking lot. He pulls a baggie out of his pocket. There’s an already-rolled joint in it.

The truck is so old it still has one of those built-in cigarette lighters. He pushes it in to heat up and then hands me the joint. I stare at it, unsure of what to do with it. I look at Miller expectantly. “You aren’t going to light it for me?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t smoke.”

“But . . . you have a dealer.”

Miller laughs. “His name is Steven. He’s my coworker, not a dealer. But he always has weed on him.”