Page 86 of Wayfarers

“You’re welcome.”

We’re the only people in the laundromat. There’s no A/C, just three whirring box fans, and my neck is slick with sweat. It’s hotter in here than it is outside—we left Winslow tied up out front with a bowl of water and he’s napping away on the warm concrete.

“I love that you have a coin purse,” Knox says, surprising me.

“Why?”

“Because—okay, tell me if I get this wrong. But it doesn’t feel casual to me, like you’ve been collecting spare change and just stuffing it in there. I feel like you thought, laundry. Or I don’t know, maybe pinball too, but definitely laundry, I’ll need coins, and you went to the bank and had them give you rolls of quarters and you counted them out and put them in that little corduroy purse to bring with. Am I right?”

I’m blushing. I hope he thinks it’s just sunburn. “You’re not wrong.”

“Knew it.”

“I’m not like—okay, this is probably obvious. But I have a hard time being casual about things. Or like . . . trusting that they’ll just work out. I like to make a plan. I like to execute the plan. Or not ‘like.’ It’s ‘have to.’ Something I have to do. It’s embarrassing.”

He’s leaning against the machine while it whirs. “I don’t think that’s embarrassing.”

“Well, it definitely doesn’t make me chill. It’s . . . I feel like I need to control what I can. Do what I can to fight against chaos. I make a lot of lists.”

“That doesn’t sound like control,” Knox says, “it just sounds like thinking ahead. If that’s not chill, I don’t want to be chill. I want whatever the opposite of chaos is.”

But he looks a little like chaos, standing there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes so blue against his tan, and maybe I’m worse at controlling things than I thought, because the words just slip out of me.

“My ex used to get on me about it,” I say. “Even though I helped him keep his life together too. Kept track of his college application deadlines. Reminded him to get gas when he was running on empty. He let me do all that stuff, but he also made it clear that it was annoying.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.” I busy myself with my laundry bag, sorting whites from colors.

“Was he—was that the guy you were supposed to be traveling with?”

All at once, tears stand up in my eyes. “Yeah,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I mean, I definitely upset you.”

“You—okay. It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Breakups are hard,” Knox says. “I get it.”

He definitely does not get it.

Because it wasn’t a breakup, and I don’t miss Cal. I miss living in a world that makes sense. I miss living in a world that keeps its promises.

A LITTLE LATER

We’ve been quiet for a while, watching our machines spin. The humidity is making my hair go electric. I braid it, let it unravel. Braid it. Let it unravel.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Knox, finally. “For being emotional.”

He sits on the linoleum and crosses his legs. “Okay,” he says. “I forgive you.”

Affecting a chill I’m definitely not feeling, I slide down next to him. When I tip my head back against the machine, he does too.

“Three more minutes, and we can move stuff to the dryer,” he says.