Run(47)

“Fine,” Agnes says. She’s gone a little cold, and it makes me feel even worse. “Let’s get going, then.”

She starts walking without me, and I hurry to catch up with her. “Here,” I say, taking Utah’s leash from her left hand. “I’ll take the dog. Hold on to my arm, all right? The ground is pretty rough around here.”

She takes my elbow, and we start walking. We don’t say nothing for a long, long time. And I know I oughta apologize. For yelling at her. For getting us lost. For bringing her along to begin with. I oughta tell her I’m sorry.

I oughta tell her a lot of things.

Instead, though, neither of us talks for almost an hour. I reckon we’re both too overwhelmed to say much.

Agnes is the first to break the silence, though.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she says.

We’re still walking, still on a dirt road where nobody seems to live. We’ve passed a couple trailers in the few miles we’ve gone, but they looked old and abandoned, grass grown up nearly as high as the broken windows.

My feet ache—these flip-flops ain’t meant for hiking through mountains—and my stomach’s started growling.

“How you figure?” I ask.

“You were right before,” Agnes says. “We’ll hit a town eventually. Maybe we can get a motel room. Just because the guy at the gas station recognized us doesn’t mean everybody will. Could’ve just been a fluke.”

“Then what?” I ask. I don’t even bother pointing out that that guy probably called the cops, who are probably out looking for us now. “We ain’t got a car. And I don’t got a clue how to lead anybody back to the Reliant, even if we did find a spare tire we could afford.”

“Well … Then maybe wherever we end up is the city we’re meant to stay in,” she says. “We can find a place and—”

“We can’t.”

“Yes, we can. It’ll be tough, but maybe we don’t need your daddy’s money,” she insists. “You can get a job at a store or something. I can … I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll find something. We’ll figure it out.”

My stomach starts aching again, and it ain’t got nothing to do with hunger. “Agnes …”

“If we really have to, we can call your daddy. Maybe he’ll come to us.”

“Agnes—”

“Even if the place is real bad, it’s all right. We’ll save up. Then we can find a better place. With a yard and—”

“It ain’t gonna happen, Agnes!” It comes out a scream, echoes through the holler. “We ain’t getting an apartment or jobs or a yard. It ain’t gonna happen! It was never gonna happen!”

She drops my arm, backs up like I’ve burned her. “What are you talking about?”

“I ain’t looking for my daddy so we can get money, Agnes! I’m looking for him so I can live with him.”

Agnes stares at me, her mouth open just a little. The truth gets shouted back at us from a dozen directions. All the phantom voices have faded, though, before she says a word. Just one word.

“What?”

I’m shaking all over. My hands. My legs. And I think I might throw up again. Utah can tell something’s wrong, too. She rubs her face against my leg, trying to comfort me. But it’s no good.

I never meant to tell Agnes this way. Never meant to scream it at her on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. But now the words are out, and I can’t bring them back.

“I wanna live with him.” I say it quiet enough so the eavesdropping mountains can’t repeat the words. “That’s why I wanna find him. Not for money, but because I wanna see if he’ll let me move in.”

“You … But I thought … You said—”

“I know,” I say. “I lied, Agnes. I … I’m sorry.”

Everything goes still. Everything but my trembling hands and feet, at least. No birds fly over. Utah don’t move, don’t even sniff at the ground. Even the crickets have gone quiet, just for a second.

Then, slowly, Agnes turns. She holds her cane out in front of her, sweeping it along the dirt road as she starts moving in the direction we been headed for the past hour.

“Agnes?”

“It’ll be dark in a few hours.” Her voice is like a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head. “We better keep walking.”





Colt drove me to Bo’s house the next morning, and it was probably the most awkward five-minute drive of my whole life.

Last night, we’d fallen asleep, squeezed in his tiny bed, and it felt safe and easy. But something about daylight had shifted things. We hadn’t said much to each other since we woke up, and I could barely look at him without feeling embarrassed.

Not that I regretted what had happened—I didn’t. At all.

Just thinking about the night before gave me butterflies. Colt had been so patient and sweet and slow. And even when it was weird or uncomfortable, we’d mostly laughed through it. It was fun, and we’d been safe; Colt had used a condom. I had nothing to regret, honestly.

But still. When morning comes, what do you say to the boy you shared your first kiss with, then slept with an hour later? Especially when that boy is leaving town the next day? I had no idea.