Page 87 of The Girl with No Name

“Hey,” she mutters.

“Hey.”

She sits up, rubs her eyes, and we make eye contact.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“You didn’t do anything,” I tell her.

“I didn’t tell you no.” She looks away. “I need a hot shower before we hit the road.” She gets up. “I can’t believe I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

She disappears into the bathroom, and I use that as my cue to shake Dunn awake. I find him in the bedroom. “Dunn, you ready to leave?”

“Sleep, man. I did, like, ten shots of whiskey with Randy last night.”

“I think we’re ready to go.”

He sits up, scratches his face, and blinks himself awake. “When did you guys get back?”

“Late last night.”

“Why are you all wet?”

“Stormed on our walk home.”

“Oh. Wild. All right. Let’s roll, then.”

Luna takesthe backseat in the Firebird for the ride this time, which is much quieter than the drive here.

Dunn cranks Zach Bryan, and I’m staring at Samantha’s text from this morning, which I have yet to respond to.

Samantha: How was the concert, babe? Miss you

“How ya feeling?” Dunn asks. “Any hangover? That was crazy that we tripped on LSD. Whooo. Haven’t done that since prisoner-of-war training.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel so good,” I admit. “I feel like complete shit.”

“Shouldn’t have had those extra beers to end the night,” he says.

“Yeah, could be the beers.”

Or it could be the fact that I feel like I’ve taken a hatchet to my own heart, and I’m bleeding out. I bought a ring for one girl last week, then kissed another. It’s three more hours to Chicago, and the end to this drive can’t come soon enough. I want to jump out of the car and throw myself in front of one of the oncoming semi-trucks.

As we’re driving through some nondescript countryside in Indiana, the Zach Bryan mix changes to a song called “Let You Down.”

I listen to the lyrics of the whole song, and I utterly get it—I mean, I get the Zach Bryan hype. Sure, he might be known for his bangers, but the man is a lyrical genius. The lyrics of this song are like poetry. Currently, it’s like he’s packaged up my mental state and thrown it in a country song.

As the song ends, nerves crop up in my throat, like I’m going to puke.

Nope. This isn’t nerves.

This isactual puke.

“Dunn.” I slam my hand on the dashboard. “Pull over.”

“Bro, we’re only three hours out. We just stopped for gas. You have to pee again? Just hold it.”

“Nah, it’s not pee.”

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