Summer of Us

Chapter 16

On the way out of town, we stop for gas. I twirl a road map around my lap, one that's been in the Bronco for years from previous owners, tracing a line between our town to Banks, which resides in the Northern Georgia Mountains. A shadow falls over my arm, and I look up to see Monty hovering by my rolled down window, looking particularly douchey with my sunglasses on and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his matted head. I tell him so, and when I go to snatch the hood off he takes an easy step away from the car.

"You're just jealous because these look better on me than they do on you," he says, coming back and resting his arms on the door. This close, he smells like amber musk and tobacco.

"Go in and get your own," I say. "I need sunglasses to function."

"Yeah?" he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and pulls out a ten dollar bill. "Go get yourself something nice."

"You're a jackass," I mutter, taking his money and slipping my shoes back on, which I had taken off on the ride over here.

"And a coffee?" he calls out after me. Without turning around, I flip him the bird.

Inside, I try on all the polarized sunglasses on the display, finally deciding on a pair of aviators. I get the coffee, black, pay up front, then go back to the car. Monty's sitting in the front with the air blasting, scanning the map as I had been ten minutes before.

"Should make it in a few hours," he says, accepting the cup without looking up. "We might not need GPS, if you wanna play navigator."

"Great," I say, taking the map. It's good to have something to do. That way, I'm not watching the road or anxiously anticipating some kind of freak accident. It's just what I needed—a distraction.

"Hey, Aves?"

"Yes?" I look up from strapping myself in, and almost wish I hadn't. Because he's pushed my sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, watching me with the intensity of a wild animal about to strike.

"I'm really happy you came," he says softly. Everything about him says, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

Nervous, I say, "Thanks for not leaving."

It's a gorgeous ride. The sky is saturated with changing colors, finally changing to a crystalized blue as the sun comes all the way up on the horizon. The air that leaks into the car is muggy and scented by flowering trees and morning dew. We go from forest-lined highways to rural back roads, passing abandoned homes and businesses, vegetation bursting out of the structures.

In the mountains, the roads grow narrow. We arrive at a gate with a small guardhouse, the carved wooden sign baring the name of the resort. Monty produces his reservation on his phone, and soon the guard opens up the gate.

Up here, the space for cars is steep. There's barely enough room for one car, and if another comes down we'll have to pull over to the side of the road, close to the edge, enough to fall right over. I lean forward and stick my head between my legs, breathing hard.

"You ok?" Monty asks, concerned.

"Fine," I reach for my bag, sorting through to find my medication. But it's too packed and I'm at such an awkward pose that it's hard to see much of anything.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah, dude. Freakin' drive."

The car stops moving a few torturous minutes later, Monty putting the car into park. "We're here, weirdo."

I pop up, blood rushing to my head. The view is beautiful, all tall spindly trees and sloping land and a lake dotted with boats a ways down. The water glitters, possibly the best sight of it all.

"Whoa," I say, my breath taken away.

The cabin is built right on a peak, small and secluded. Looking up, other faces of homes, some massive and likely worth millions, dot the side of the mountain. At ours, there's a worn down fire pit, a wrap-around porch with two wooden rockers that face the view. Inside smells like Pine-Sol and fresh soap, and the walls are decorated with generic art of what I'm assuming is the nearby town.

"Definitely the kind of place someone gets murdered in," I remark, taking in all the basic amenities. Coffee maker; end tables with landlines and a directory; a closet full of extra blankets, towels and toilet paper.

"What a dark thought," Monty says, eyes still glued on the view outside the kitchen window.

"Only one room?" I ask as we make our way through the cabin, pushing open the door. One room with a queen sized bed, scratchy rug, small t.v. and closet.

"The couch in the living room is a pullout," he says, remaining at the door. He's blushing and won't meet my eyes. "I'll take that, you can have the bed."

"This is your trip, Mont. You take the room."

He shrugs, a hand in his pocket. "You're the girl."

"I insist."

"I insist," he says. "In case there's any serial killers, I'll hear if they try and come in."

"You think I'm kidding," I say, stepping back into the short, dark hall with him. "Ten outta ten, some freaky shit has happened here."

He rolls his eyes. "Let's get the stuff out of the car."

I don't know why I'm surprised he's only brought beer and bar snacks like peanuts. I'm our saving grace, so our fridge is stocked with water and Stace's Capri Sun.

In the bathroom, I discover that somehow, both my medications did not make it into my bag. The birth control isn't a big deal, because I already have my period and this week will just be skipping iron pills. Going without the Valium is going to be a problem, though.

While on the toilet, there's a missed call from mom. I attempt to call back, but service is pretty much non-existent, so I opt for a text that gets bounced back several times before staying frozen "sending." There's a text from CJ too, which makes my stomach knot worse than the cramps already are. It's just a simple, "Hey, what's up?" and yet it's transfixing. How do I answer? Do I tell him where I am, who I'm with, what we're doing? Accompanying these questions is a sinking feeling that he might not care.

"You feeling ok?" Monty asks when I emerge from the bathroom. I hadn't realized I'd been in that long.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Is it cool if I lay down for a little bit? I only need like thirty minutes."

"Sure," he says, spinning around in the chair that's at the tiny breakfast bar. "I'll go on a walk or something, check everything out."

"Cool," I say, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

"We're ok, right?"

I bite my lip while he watches, waiting for a response. I want to say yes, desperately, so much so that it almost slips right out of my mouth.

"We should talk," I say, and he deflates. "After I get up."

"Shit," he says lightly. "Did you come all this way just to break up with me?"

"Funny," I say, but don't laugh. I squeeze his shoulder on my way passed, realizing it's the first time we've touched all summer. It's electrifying, and it's tempting to just leave my hand there instead of going to bed. "See you in a bit."

In the room, I lift up one edge of the military-made bed, slipping between the cool sheets. I hold on to my little bit of salvation and drift off to sleep.