Page 15
It’s literally apocalyptic outside. I just saw a cow float by.
Me:
No you didn’t.
Whitley:
Fine, I didn’t. But I COULD have. That’s how bad it is.
I set the phone down, tilting my head back against the headrest. My eyes grow heavy as the storm rages on. The rhythmic pounding of rain against metal lulls me into a familiar half-sleep where dreams and reality blur at the edges.
A sharp knock jolts me awake. I bolt upright, disoriented and heart hammering against my ribs. For a second, I’ve got no damn clue where I am. I’m only aware of the fogged-up windows and the cold ache of my spine molded to the driver’s seat.
Then it comes again—hard, impatient knuckles rapping on the passenger window. I press the heel of my palms to my eyes as they adjust, and there she is.
Whitley. Standing outside, drenched to the bone.
“What the…” I mutter, leaning over to unlock the door. Rain blows in with her as she yanks it open and climbs into the cab.
She’s shivering, arms wrapped tight around herself, soaked tank top clinging to every curve like a second skin.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “And that room smells like sadness and mildew. And maybe dead raccoon.”
I stare at her. “You walked out here in the middle of a thunderstorm because the room smelled bad?”
She hesitates. Shrugs. Doesn’t meet my eyes. “Also…I might be mildly terrified of storms.”
There it is. The truth buried beneath the dramatics. Her bravado peels back just enough for me to see the flash of fear in her eyes when lightning cracks across the sky.
I shift in my seat. “You should’ve told me.”
She rubs her arms for warmth. “Is it cool if I just…sit here for a bit?”
I reach behind the seat, grab the old flannel I keep for emergencies, and hand it to her without a word.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. “Thanks.”
I nod, staring straight ahead. Whitley in my passenger seat—wet, scared, and wrapped in my flannel—is a dangerous thing.
Whitley pulls the fabric tight around her, the sleeves swallowing her hands as she tucks her knees up on the seat. “You like being alone, don’t you?”
“Most of the time.”
“Yeah.” She exhales. “I can tell.”
Then she turns to look at me, head tilted. “Have you ever let anyone in, Beau?”
I meet her eyes, steady and open, and something about them makes my chest ache. “Sometimes.”
“Let me guess,” she murmurs. “They didn’t stay.”
Silence stretches between us, thick as the storm outside. She doesn’t push for an answer, and I don’t offer one because people don’t get it. Any time I’ve tried to have a relationship—these women only see a grown man still living in his hometown, still checking in on his mother every day—they think I’m stuck. Like I’m some kind of martyr or mama’s boy.
They don’t know what bipolar disorder looks like when it’s your own mother. When the woman who raised you cycles between manic highs that have her spending money she doesn’t have on things she doesn’t need, and depressive lows so dark she won’t leave her bed for days. When you’re the one who has to hide the credit cards during the good weeks and force feed her during the bad ones.
They don’t understand that I’m not stuck. I’m just the only thing keeping her from drowning.
Whitley shifts, resting her cheek against the flannel bunched up on the console between us. Her lashes flutter once, then settle. Her breathing evens out, slow and deep.
