Page 10 of This

“I’m an idiot for not fucking you.”

When I nod, his lips part, so his breath touches the seam of mine.

“Deleting your number was a mistake,” he says.

More nodding—not because I agree, but because I want more contact between us. And he gives it to me, bringing his mouth closer, his hand to the side of my face.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave the bar.”

I don’t nod that time, and he stops moving. He studies me with a serious look on his face. Then he sighs and presses his lips to mine.

“Goodbye, Bennett,” he whispers.

“Goodbye, Dane.”

My flight instincts win outbefore the sun comes up. I detangle myself from Dane and quite possibly the roughest blanket known to man. At some point, he pulled his beanie down over his eyes. I hate that it makes me smile.

I shove my dress and shower supplies in my bag and drop it by the door. Keaton has already unpacked her neon-pink sticky notes, and I scribble out three mini-mems.

One goes on her arm.

Meet you at your parents’ for breakfast. I’ll bring the tissues.

Another on Liam’s bedroom door.

Try not to be a total douche all the time.

Dane’s note sticks somewhere in the vicinity of his forehead.

Two messages.

On the back, I leave my phone number. I will probably regret it before I reach city limits, but I’ll be gone, so it won’t matter.

A realization hits me on my way to the Reynolds’ house. Phoenix isn’t my home anymore. Nowhere is. An odd sense of freedom accompanies the thought. I roll the windows down and decide not to care when my hair whips me in the face.

The place you grow up always smells the same. Even through wall plug-ins and candles, the scent of memories lingers. Prior to my parental discarding, I spent more time in Keaton’s bedroom than my own. More time on their couch, in their backyard, at their dinner table. So, the transition to living there full-time took as much effort as not walking home at dark.

When I arrive at the house, Joyce’s nose is already red from crying and stays that way all morning. Patrick pats me on the back a lot and prints off driving directions I won’t use because, smartphones. They’re the parents everyone needs—supportive, nurturing, present. And the closest thing I have or could ever want.

We all hug in a big group on the front porch when I insist on getting on the road. Keaton holds on long after Joyce and Patrick go inside. I promise to charge my phone every day, and she threatens to snail-mail me mini-mems if I don’t.

Then I’m in the car, a weight lifting with every mile. I drive straight through, only stopping for gas and coffee and the inevitable pee breaks that occur when fueled by copious amounts of caffeine.

The darkness brings calm. Headlights, different radio stations coming in and out of range, and me on my own for the first time.

The last ten miles, I practice introducing myself to the stranger named Marco, who I’ll be sharing walls with for the next three months until his roommate returns from Iowa. At the high-rise apartment building, I haul my bag up three flights of stairs because the elevator is broken. Then I drag it back down one because my apartment is on the second floor.

After the door opens, I receive an up-down from a thick-framed set of glasses. He finishes his inspection and disappears back into the apartment.

“She’s here,” he says, out of sight.

“What does she look like?” someone asks.

“Cute but blonde. Great eyes, but they’re blue.”

Me in ten words or less.

I let myself in, and passing a small kitchen, I walk into the living room. Glasses lounges on one side of a worn leather couch. At the other end, a guy looks up from his magazine long enough for a quick pass over me.

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