Page 39 of The Long Way Home
“I’m not—”
She stumbles again. I catch her by the waist, steadying her so she doesn’t face-plant into the doorway.
“Exactly,” I say.
When we hit the porch, the cooler night air hits her, and she shivers. Without thinking, I take off my hoodie and pull it over her head. She fights me for a second, arms flailing inside the sleeves.
“Rhett,” she complains, muffled by the fabric.
“Just hold still.” I tug it down.
Her face appears again, hair sticking out everywhere. She looks ridiculous. And somehow still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
“Happy?” I ask.
“No.”
But I watch as she snuggles deeper into the hoodie.
We walk in silence for a minute, just the scrape of her shoes and the distant thump of music behind us. I keep close, ready to grab her if she stumbles. She hates it, but I can’t help it.
When she trips over nothing, again, I steady her with a hand at her elbow. At this point, I’m tempted to carry her home.
She pulls away, muttering, “I’m not made of glass.”
“Never said you were.” I wait until she’s steady again before adding, “But you sure as hell drank like you were trying to shatter tonight.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to ‘shatter.’ I was having fun.”
“You were pounding shots like you were trying to forget something.”
She stiffens. “Rhett, don’t.”
“No.” I step in front of her, forcing her to stop. “What the hell got into you tonight?”
She tries to brush past me, but I move with her.
“Am I not allowed to drink and have fun? Or is that against the rules, grandpa?”
“I’ve seen you do both of those things, and they didn’t look like tonight.”
She tries to pick up the pace, but I place my hand on her shoulder, making her look back at me.
“Sunny,” I press. “Talk to me.”
She exhales hard, a frustrated, foggy sigh slipping out of her. “I don’t know. I just wanted to feel something.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got.”
Her voice cracks at the end, quiet enough that I almost miss it. I drop my tone.
“Rachel.”
She stands very still. Her fingers twist the hem of my hoodie like she is trying to anchor herself.
“You ever get the feeling,” she says, barely audible, “that if you disappeared for a day… a week… nobody would notice? Not really.”
