Page 244 of Wrath

"Ragged out roads," I remark. As soon as I say it, I feel like shit, because it seems rude.

"Oh yeah, baby. Country roads. Got ragged out by them 18-wheelers. Whatcha think they hauling out of here?"

I look at the tall, skinny pine trees on each side of the road. "Lumber?"

"Damn straight."

I smirk at his twang and grammar, and he gives me a grin. An awkward little grin. Like it's forced. Because he can feel my nervousness. Or...whatever this feeling I have is.

"Guess you didn't know how Alabama country this boy really is, huh? Maybe I should play some Garth Brooks."

"I don't think you can," I tell him. "His stuff's not on iTunes."

"How do you know?" He narrows his brows at me.

I give him a grin of my own now. "Insane asylum ftw, baby. Some girl there was damn obsessed with Garth Brooks. When she got some time on the computer, she would try to play him on iTunes, and when she couldn't, she would ask for YouTube. But you can't do YouTube in the mental hospital."

Now I feel like shit for that bit, too. Mills is a good sport—so good it's pretty hard to notice how he really feels about things sometimes—but I think when I talk about Sheppard Pratt, he feels uncomfortable. Or sad. Even now, he looks pensive, squinting at the slightly hilly two-lane road ahead of us, and I bet he's trying to decide if he should correct me on the term "insane asylum."

I figure he won't, and I'm right. He lets me have it.

"I like Garth, but I'm okay with Ariana. Is that working for you?" he asks.

"Yeah. It's working."

We pass a mile marker: 17 more to Fairplay.

I stare at the road in front of us. At its cracked and faded asphalt. Even the double yellow lines striped down the middle look so faded that they're springtime yellow and not deep gold like the usual. I look at the trees, at the deep green grass that fringes the road's shoulder.

Forest. That's what it is. It's pine forest. It's dense, which makes it all the more jarring when you'll pass big swatches of chopped down forest. People cashing in on lumber, I guess. Wonder if that even pays well.

Miller’s fingers squeeze mine, and I try to picture us in my Jeep. Me driving and him in the passenger's side. The feeling of his presence there beside me. The most recent vivid memory I had was of having my head in his lap at the old house with the mossy trees, followed by that weird thing I said about Aristotle. But since then, nothing.

He would never say this, but I'm pretty sure he hoped that driving down here might jar something in my mind. I was telling him I'm not sure how much Carl would want to hear my tragic tale right before Christmas.

"Especially coupled with the fact that I don't know him. At all, really."

And Mills said, "Maybe you will, by then. You never know."

So, in my mind, at least, that kinda tipped his hand. How nice would Christmas be if I remembered being in our parents' house together? We could sit up on the roof like Mills said we loved to do, or curl up in his bed and talk about...I don't know what the fuck. Our high school days of ball park blow jobs.

"Whatcha thinking?" he murmurs.

"Just listening," I say. It sounds slightly curt, so add a strike to the "fucked it up" column.

"Mkay," he says softly. Soft and easy. Asking for nothing.That's Josh Miller. He's a good guy. Too good for me, with all my baggage. All my...issues?

I saw Greeley again two days ago, and we did our first session of EDMR—trauma therapy. It felt weird. I hated it. I don't want to go back...but I will. For Miller. Because if I'm going to stay with him—and I am—forever—then I have to be sure I put myself back together right. The arms in arm holes and the feet on the right sides. I have to become a whole fucking person. Not just for him, either. Also for me. I guess.

Do I deserve to be a whole person?

I do.

I know I do.

Do Ifeellike I do? Not every day. But I know it with my brain.

We pass under a bridge. A walking bridge?

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