Page 101 of The Exit Strategy

Nolan’s the last to leave a couple of hours later—probably by design—and because he and Hud forgot to coordinate flights.

He and Junie have been standing at the bottom of mydriveway for close to twenty minutes while I hide on the porch like a fucking stalker.

He glances toward the house, close to where I stand in shadow behind a large column, but before he gets into his car, I step into view.

I’m not sixteen, and we already had our uncomfortable goodbye.

When the car disappears around the corner, Junie remains at the end of the drive for a moment. Not moving. Just…staring off into space. When she eventually turns, I step forward again, expecting to call after her.

But she’s not going to her apartment. She’s coming to me, to my house, and it settles the hornets buzzing around my chest.

Even my pulse tunes to the beat of her the closer she gets.

Junie sits on the top step but doesn’t say anything, so I quietly sit below her—taking our usual spots as though this is how we were created to fit in the world.

“He told me to stop waiting for people to leave,” she says after a lot of deep breaths. “As a general rule and new life philosophy.”

“That sounds like Nolan.” It also sounds like he’s actively pushing her toward me without knowing the landmines I still have in place.

She stomps her foot on the stair next to me. “He also said I should order the thing I actually want at a restaurant instead of ordering something safe and stealing half of whoever’s plate I like better.”

I chuckle, and the lightness it brings overpowers my earlier fears. “That’s been a problem for some people since you were twelve.”

“It’s only a problem for Hudson. It’s actually strategic. Why commit to one entrée when?—”

“Junie.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She pulls her knees up. The ocean breeze swirls her hair around her face. “It’s a metaphor.”

I nod, then lean back on my elbows. My arm is an inch from her thighs.

After a while, she angles her legs closer to me, the distance between us evaporating like a morning fog. “What did Hudson say to you? It looked like an…uncomfortable conversation.”

“You want the truth?”

She nods, and I catch the movement from the corner of my eye.

“He said to get my shit together.”

I don’t even have to look her way to know she’s smiling. “He’s succinct.”

“Efficient,” I agree.

The air shifts around us. I can feel her wanting to ask the follow-up question—Are you going to? Then she pulls back half an inch. She’s decided not to ask, which is its own kind of answer. She’s trusting me to get there without being pushed into it. It’s more than I’ve earned and the most terrifying gift I’ve ever been handed.

I can’t let her down. Again.

“I have work to do,” she says, standing. Her bare leg brushes my arm.

There’s a chemical reaction that happens between us that can’t be replicated or denied. The harder I try, the stronger the force of it.

“Me too.”

She goes inside. The door doesn’t slam. And she doesn’t look back.

I sit on the porch for another ten minutes, allowing myself to want something without immediately cataloguing why I don’t deserve it.

It’s harder than it sounds. I’ve been dismantling my own wants for so long I’ve almost forgotten the fabric of them.