“It’s better than being anywhere inside town limits,” she says. “Who knows what Carter Blount is going to do with his?”
I’m about to accept. It’s slightly different than the nature scavenger hunt I planned along the creek trail, but Sawyer interjects.
“Thank you for being willing to include me, but I’m ready to head back home.”
It catches me off guard, and I shoot him a sharp look to see if anything is wrong, but I can’t read his expression. He’s smiling at my mom, who makes a sound of disappointment.
“Well, all right, but I have to tell you, last time we were at Miss Lily’s, Grace and Noah gave us a completely different kind of fireworks. You’re missing out.”
“Next time,” he says, and it makes my mom beam and wink at me.
I do my best to return her smile, but my stomach is tightening, an acidic feeling that has nothing to do with Camille Lynch’s annoyingly good vinaigrette. Sawyer’s voice is too smooth. If anything, he’s become more expressive as he’s gotten older. So why can’t I read anything from his tone now?
My stomach clenches harder as I draw the only logical conclusion. This has all been too much. I gave him real life, all right, but I served it up in a single giant bite. Who wouldn’t feel overwhelmed by that?
I keep my smile pasted on as we say goodbye to everyone else and walk back toward Main Street. “Back to Oak Crest, huh?” I keep my voice light, trying not to let my worry show. We haven’t even gotten to the third date.
“Yeah, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” We walk toward his car in quiet. Sawyer doesn’t chatter, and long silences from him aren’t unusual, but this feels so…heavy. So pregnant with things he isn’t saying.
When we reach his SUV, I stop on the sidewalk. “Thanks for coming out today.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” He slides his hands into his pockets.
I don’t know what to say. I want to ask if something’s wrong, but I already know there is. Now is a bad time to have this talk with all the curious eyes marking us as they pass. “Text me when you get home and let me know you made it safely.”
His forehead furrows. “You aren’t coming with me?”
“Oh. I didn’t think I was invited.”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
I hate those words. I hate them so much. Even though it’s usually me saying them, I still hate them. There’s never a good side of this conversation to be on. But I have to hold it together like I did during every taping when my dad was in surgery or getting an infusion, and it was all I could think about.
“Definitely.” I clear my throat when my voice sounds creaky. “Lots to talk about.”
“So let’s go.”
But I can’t stand the thought of two awkward hours in the car with him. “I better follow you. It’ll be a lot easier for me to get back here later.”
“I should have thought of that. See you over there?”
“Sounds good.”
His arms twitch up like he’s about to hug me but stops himself and unlocks his car, a sleek Audi SUV. I step back so he can get in, then wave as he backs out of his space and takes the road out of Creekville.
I turn and walk to my rental parked behind the store. I slide in, grip the wheel, and take a deep, calming breath. “This is going to suck,” I say out loud. “But it’ll be good for both of you.”
I say the words. I’m not sure I believe them, but I try to. I start the car and put myself on Main Street. But when it curves and turns into the state road, when I should stay straight for Roanoke and on to the camp, I take the left fork that will eventually wind back to Creekville.
I can’t do it. I can’t have this conversation.
Yes, I’m a chicken. But I put mywholeself out there today, and it’s my whole self he rejected. It sucks. It sucks, and I don’t need to have a post-mortem on it right now. We can talk about it eventually in a civilized video call where we put this whole thing to rest for a final time. But Icannotsit civilly on his furniture while he tells me kindly why we’re not going to work.
And Iknowhe’ll be kind. I know it. Somehow, that makes everything worse.
I drive until I pick up the road back to Creekville and pull into my parents’ driveway. It’s empty, and I’m thankful. I need a quiet space to fall apart. I go inside to my room and flop on my bed, staring at my ceiling.
