Page 20 of Hate You, Maybe
“Still. Your mom never gave up on love, and now she’s getting married.”
“If it actually happens,” I tell her.
“Cynic.”
“Guilty as charged.”
I’ve shared the broad strokes of my childhood with Loren, but she can’t relate to my skepticism. Her parents were happily married until her mother passed almost a decade ago. Now her dad’s got early-onset dementia and, most days, he doesn’t remember losing his wife to an extended illness.
According to Loren, that’s mostly a mercy.
So yes, her family has experienced their own heartbreaks and losses for sure. But Loren still believes in happily ever afters. Meanwhile, I’m stuck back in once upon a time.
“Hey.” Loren nods toward the bay window across the house. “I think your knight in shining armor is here.”
I follow her gaze out the window just as a dirt-brown Buick pulls up to our curb. Mountain Valley School District is emblazoned on the side. “Kinda funny to see a guy like Dexter Michaels driving something other than his big manly-man truck.”
“Babe,” Loren says.
“Traitor.”
When he beeps the horn, I mumble, “Ugh,” and start dragging my bag and suitcase toward the door.
“Don’t murder anyone,” Loren warns. “You’ll miss your mom’s wedding if you’re in prison.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Dex honks again.
On second thought, prison might be worth the risk.
Chapter Seven
Dex
Sayla’s house looks like a cottage ripped from the pages of a fairytale. Her siding is the color of a cartoon sun, and the front door is bright red, like Snow White’s apple. If I hadn’t read Tolkien back in middle school and learned that hobbits have circular doors, I could totally see Bilbo Baggins living in this place.
She stumbles from the house, dragging a suitcase behind her and shouldering a leather work bag stuffed so full the seams might split. The wheels of the suitcase stutter over the brick walkway. Interesting choice of luggage considering we’re headed to a rustic retreat. In the woods.
I know she won’t like the implication that she can’t handle her own bags, but I jog up the walkway to help anyway. I’m a gentleman, as we already established.
Even if Sayla will never see me as a genuinely nice guy.
When I reach for her suitcase handle, she blows a strand of hair out of her face and says, “I can manage on my own.”
Knew it.
So I beat her to the passenger door of the long brown Buick and hold it open for her instead. She hefts her suitcase into the back seat, then harrumphs into the car, dropping the leather bag by her feet.
“Nice morning for a road trip,” I say, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting up the car.
“We don’t have to talk.”
“I know we don’t have to talk.” I hitch my shoulders. “What if wewantto talk?”
“I won’t,” she says, matter-of-factly. She’s using her teacher voice. Clipped and professional. Like there’s a divide between us.
So I set my phone’s GPS for Camp Reboot and turn up the volume. The app predicts our arrival in just about an hour. As I follow the first direction out of her neighborhood, Sayla glances at my phone and scowls.
