Page 49 of Stars and Scars

Grayson’s face falls. I can see the muscles working in his jaw as his hands tighten on the wheel.

“I wouldn’t know. My parents died when I was young, and about ten years later I lost my sister. No family to ask.”

I suck in air through my teeth, absolutely mortified.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault.”

Despite his words, his tone is anything but all right. I fall back into silence, unable to think of the right words. He clearly hasn’t moved on after his sister’s death.

I think about what it might feel like if I lost one or both of my parents, and it’s almost more than I can stand.

His silence is deafening, but I don’t know what else to say. I want to help Grayson. I want to make him feel better, and maybe get some closure for the grief he feels over his sister’s death.

But I’m afraid to hurt him even more than I already have. So I just lean back in my seat and watch the miles roll by.

I don’t think he’s going to truly open up to me. Ever. He may not even be capable.

And it breaks my heart.

12

GRAYSON

“How much further is it?”

I start out of my reverie. My mind has been in dark places since she brought up my family.

Charlotte’s eyes have a haunted look to them, and I can see the signs of strain on her face. We’ve been going non-stop all day and night.

“Only about forty more minutes.”

Charlotte groans and buries her face in her hands.

“I’m so sick of driving I could just scream.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

I spot a billboard for a Flying J truck stop.

“How about we pull over for a little bit? Give you a chance to stretch your legs?”

“And get some snacks,” she adds. “Dinner feels like it was forever ago.”

The highway ramp’s newer pavement makes a smoother sound as we roll up and over it. I slow down, feeling the jeep pull ever so slightly to the side. I’m going to need to do some maintenance on the old girl when this is all over. That was one rough ride.

The truck stop lights seem brighter than they should be. It really has been a damn long day. Yet, seeing Charlotte half-walk, half-run into the truck stop lightens my load. I don’t know how else to describe it. She makes me feel like the darkness isn’t quite as oppressive.

I join her inside. We roam the aisles filled with enormous amounts of snacks. She makes a beeline for the Mexican section.

“These are my favorite,” she says, holding up packages of white wafers with some kind of filling.

“What are they?”

“Goat’s milk wafers and chocolate cream. Have you never had them before?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

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