Page 27 of Sunday's Best
Instead, I lean into our typical banter with a playful scoff. “God forbid you get off schedule.”
“Angel, the schedule is the least of my concerns.”
“I’m going to break up with him,” I whisper. “I am. I’d do it right now.”
“He doesn’t deserve you, but… shit.” He rakes a hand through his own hair, yanking and squeezing a handful of wavy locks. When he lets go with a tormented exhale, his hair’s left standing in every direction.
He’s not telling me to do it because he doesn’t want to lead me on.
“It’s fine.” I press a gentle peck to his lips and dig deep to find that numb, apathetic part of my heart to cling to. “I’m not going to actually do it right now. I don’t want to fuck things up for you two. And after this weekend, I’m staying behind, anyways. Who knows when you’ll see me again.”
His throat bobs with a swallow. “Yeah…”
It takes a minute for either one of us to be ready to let go. And the slow saunter back to the truck is solemn, especially as the sky begins to spit tiny droplets of rain at us. I sink into the back seat with an unsettled sigh.
At the rumble of the diesel engine starting, Logan wakes up. He blinks around at our surroundings and lets out a yawn. “Where are we?”
Holden shifts the truck into drive and hitches a thumb toward the bizarre roadside attraction. “Had to take Sunday to her motherland. Next stop, Drumheller.”
Logan clears his throat. “For what? We were just there for the rodeo.”
“Did you see the book she was reading the other day? The one with the sexy dinosaur on the cover?” Holden smirks back at me as we wait for a tractor to pass so we can turn back onto the highway. “Figured we could stop by the dinosaur museum and let her get her rocks off.”
A howl of Logan’s laughter booms through the truck, and I lean forward to rap my knuckles against Holden’s upper arm.
“Fuck you,” I clip. “First of all, if you’re only going to stop at places where you can make fun of me, I take back what I said about wanting to slow down and enjoy the drive home. Secondly, it was a dragon, not a dinosaur—with two functional cocks, which is two more than either of you have.”
After a quick twist in his seat, Logan’s blue eyes bounce between Holden and I. For a second, my stomach drops with worry that he found us out. We’re done for. Ten seconds or less from him losing his ever-loving mind. I rub my fingers over my lips, checking if they’re swollen, feeling for abrasions from the roughness of Holden’s facial hair.
Then, to both my dismay and relief, he says to Holden, “Dude, I learned a long time ago not to make fun of her stupid books.”
Logan’s favorite hobby has always been criticizing mine.
Holden counters, “I don’t know, man. Have you read any of them? They’re hot as hell.”
“Jesus Christ.” Logan drags his hand down his face. “You need to go out and get laid or—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. There’s a bit of bile creeping up my throat at the thought of Holden partying with Logan after they drop me off at home, but I swallow it down and focus on what Holden just admitted to. “You read romance books?”
“Yeah.” His eyes catch mine in the rearview, the staidness lifting from his expression at my surprise. “I was bored, so I downloaded a reading app on my phone last week.”
A zap of electricity hits me square in the chest. An addictive feeling I can’t quite put my finger on hums through my veins. When Holden’s staring at his phone over coffee each morning or the glow of his screen is keeping me awake at night, he’s not scrolling mindlessly. He’s not liking bikini photos on Instagram or swiping on Tinder. He’s reading what I’m reading.
I don’t know what to make of this new information.
Ten
The smell of grilling burgers, horse manure, and baking concrete fills the air. While the horses are penned up on the other side of the trailer, getting the only patch of shade available, we’re sitting in folding camp chairs under the direct sun, with a lovely view of the highway. Semi-truck after semi-truck blows by, kicking up dust and rolling waves of hot air throughout the small roadside rest stop we’re parked in.
It’s the most white trash vacation ever, but I know better than to complain when Holden usually doesn’t stop driving before dark unless the horses need something. Typically our nights on the road include pulling into a rest stop late, where the guys get the horses settled while I throw together some boxed macaroni and cheese or ramen. Then Logan falls asleep while watching a movie on his tablet, and I read in bed until my eyes start to burn from exhaustion.
Logan tips his chair forward to flip our burgers with a plastic fork, his small propane grill set on the ground. It’s a whole thing. I’m sure we look insane to passersby. “Hope you guys are hungry—I’m basically operating a Michelin Star restaurant here. Somebody call the Food Network.”
“What I’d give to see Guy Fieri show up and rate what you’ve got going on,” I reply.
“That dude lives for eating meals off of paper plates. He’d love it.”
Holden walks out of the trailer and hands me a wine cooler, fingers brushing mine. It’s quick and innocent. My pulse jumps anyway.
