Someday Never Came

Chapter Ten

Not only did both men tell me to ‘shut up and get in the truck,’ I—as the smallest one—am forced into the middle seat of Jensen’s beat-up single cab Silverado. A bizarre feeling of déjà vu settles over me, I might as well have been tossed into a time machine and transported back into the little gawky teenage girl, riding along in this very truck ten years ago.

Jensen drives with one hand on the wheel and the other hanging out the window. He’s tapping the roof along to beat of Wyhtt’s music. After all these years, it’s comforting to see they are both still in sync with one another, they have a true brotherhood that can never die. We drive like this—not speaking, but letting the music not leave us in silence—for the next several miles, simply content in one another’s company.

I must’ve not been the only one feeling nostalgic, because as Jensen turns right at the old stop sign his eyes meet mine for a split second. After another moment, he switches hands. The hand that had been tapping along to the music now has a grip on the steering wheel and his other hand moves to rest on my thigh. Wyhtt’s annoyed sigh—accompanied by dagger side eyes—causes a small snicker to escape my lips. Wyhtt practically bounces in his seat, taking his knee and driving it into my own repeatedly to get his point across.

Before I can tell them to both stop touching me, Jensen pulls into the long driveway, honking the horn furiously. Wyhtt is out of the truck and yelling before Jensen fully stops and throws the truck in park next to an SUV and another truck. It’s hard to make out the name of whoever Wyhtt is calling. For a moment I debate asking Jensen, but I remember Jensen saying that another army buddy would be joining us this week. Curiosity of who this mystery man is takes over as my eyes roam over the old beach house we grew up in. The scene causes a storm of emotions to stir in me that I hadn’t expected, each of them leaving me feeling bittersweet.

Part of me assumed I would never be here again—that I never would have returned to Phantom Shores, South Carolina—let alone return to the beach house. I never thought I’d see the old wood paneling that has grown weaker with each passing storm, or the banisters we carved our names into as children. I never dreamt I’d be walking up the stairs to the porch that I had my first kiss on, or past the porch swing Wyhtt had held me in as he told me that Jensen was gone.

The swift mess of emotions almost causes me to miss seeing the man peaking his head out the front door before he starts yelling. “Shut the hell up!”

There was no need to make our appearance known when the whole neighborhood could undoubtedly hear us coming since the moment we turned down Jade Beach Boulevard—no thanks to Jensen’s obnoxiously loud exhaust and Wyhtt’s blaring music.

It’s been ten years, and my boys clearly still make quite the entrance.