Chapter 9
The morning sun beats down on the health department’s parking lot unhindered by clouds. It’s Friday, and I’m wrapping up my first week as a pool inspector.
It’s less of a joke than I expected. People take their pools seriously.
One apartment manager wouldn’t let me leave until he finished a full demonstration of how he vacuums the pool floor.
Another guy, who runs an assisted living facility, gave me an hour-long tour of the entire building as if I was considering moving in.
The pool was part of the tour, but so were the cafeteria, nurse station, gym, and two fully furnished model apartments.
It was a decent way to kill time until he led me into the men’s locker room right before water aerobics.
There were too many men over the age of eighty and not enough clothing.
“Great news!” Whitley says with a smile. “Murray texted me back. He said he could meet you after work today. Maybe you can finally get through to him and wrap this relationship up.”
I place my hand on her shoulder. “You’re gaslighting me too now? I’ve been trying to get through to him all year. He doesn’t listen.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to ruin your last few months together.”
“He already has.”
“How? Can you tell me what he did to your head?”
My steps falter on the pavement. I can’t tell her.
Not yet. Our town is too small, our futures too fragile.
One bad whisper and you’re stuck in the mud on one of Penango’s unpaved roads with no way out.
I don’t know if Murray deserves that. But I also don’t know why I still care after what he did to me.
“Let’s make a new pact now,” I say, changing the subject.
Whitley raises her eyebrows. “As long as it doesn’t replace our first one of moving as far away from Penango as possible.”
I gulp. “Let’s agree to never date another boy from Penango ever again.” I extend my pinky finger.
She hooks her pinky finger with mine without hesitation. “That’s easy, since I never wasted my time with one in the first place.”
I laugh. “You’ve always been smarter than me.”
Suddenly, Whitley gasps and grabs my arm, yanking me out of my spiral of destructive thoughts about Murray.
“What does he think he’s doing?” she mutters, squinting ahead.
We both have clingers to shake this summer. Hers just happens to be her dad.
He stands in front of the health department’s entrance, tapping his foot. I haven’t seen him in two years, but he looks like he aged thirty. His muscles are gone, leaving him with Whitley’s stick-figure frame. Angular cheekbones jut from beneath his eyes and cast shadows over his long, gaunt face.
He’s a shell of the man who used to haunt Whitley’s weekends.
My last run-in with him was supposed to be a quiet Friday night.
I had just gotten the fire started in the pit out front of Whitley’s house.
Murray collected logs from the woods nearby while Whitley slid hot dogs onto metal skewers.
Bennie sniffed curiously at Murray’s gym bag full of sweaty football pads.
Just as the flames began to catch, headlights broke through the line of trees.
“Who is that?” Whitley asked, squinting toward the erratic lights.
Mr. Wyomen’s truck barreled down the drive without slowing. Whitley groaned. “Oh no.”
Our faces sank.
Whitley dropped the hot dogs onto the dirt and dragged Bennie toward the house.
Murray grabbed my shoulders and yanked me back as Mr. Wyomen’s truck crashed through our setup.
The firepit toppled over, sending a burst of embers and flaming logs across the ground.
Our chairs screeched and twisted beneath the truck’s tires as he skidded to a stop.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Whitley shouted. “You nearly killed us!”
“Serves you right,” Mr. Wyomen slurred, stumbling out of the driver’s seat and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Who set up all this junk in my drive?”
“We always set up the fire out here,” Whitley said. “You’re never home, so how would you know?”
“Always sounds like an exaggeration if you ask me,” he said through a belch.
“Good thing nobody is asking you.” She crossed her arms.
Mr. Wyomen shook his head and shuffled to the back of his truck, muttering curses.
Whitley rolled her eyes and pulled her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands before righting the firepit. She rearranged the surviving chairs and took a seat, crossing her legs.
Mr. Wyomen heaved a case of beer from his truck bed. “I got my crew coming over, so y’all need to disappear,” he said, twirling his finger in the air.
“No way,” Whitley said. “We just got set up. We have hot dogs and s’mores to roast.” She shot me a look. “Sit down, Stetson.”
The flames’ light flickered across Mr. Wyomen’s wrinkled face. Without warning, he stomped toward the firepit, gathered up the hot dogs, buns, and s’more supplies, and hurled them into the flames.
“There,” he said with a twisted smirk. “Everything is roasted. Just like you wanted. You got five minutes to leave before I roast something else.”
Now, in the health department parking lot, if Whitley hadn’t spotted him first, I might have thought he was another fear-induced hallucination.
He waves, then starts walking toward us.
“Do not engage,” Whitley hisses, dragging me toward the next aisle of parked cars.
“Whitley, wait!” he calls. “I’ve been looking for you.” He breaks into a jog.
Mr. Wyomen has a new position at the department doing some kind of health research for the county. He got us these jobs through his connections last month when he returned, claiming sobriety and his first steps in a long-overdue apology.
I jumped at the opportunity. A full-time gig was the perfect excuse to avoid Murray all summer. Whitley, on the other hand, only took it for the fifteen-dollar-an-hour paycheck and the promise that her dad would help with her college tuition if she agreed.
She says he has a long way to go before coming close to making amends.
His second family, the one that came first in his heart as Whitley puts it, kept him in Pittsburgh for most of her childhood. And when her grandma died, Whitley spent the rest of her days alone with just her dog, Bennie.
Her dad is one of the reasons we’re skipping town. She’s tired of everyone leaving her behind. And now she figures there’s no reason she can’t do the same.
We run to a side door, breathless, and Whitley shoves it open with her hip. “Shouldn’t we at least say hi?” I ask. “I don’t want to make him mad.”
“Do you think he ever stopped to think about all the things he should’ve done?” Whitley snaps. “No. He didn’t.”
“Well, do you want to talk about it?”
“Don’t try that role reversal on me. You’re the one who needs to fess up about your head.” She jabs a finger in my face. “Did you learn that little conversational trick from one of your podcasts?”
“No.” I laugh. “Well, maybe.” I pause. “But have you seen him since he got back?”
“No.” She folds her arms.
“Have you talked to him?”
“Just through email.”
“Is he staying at your house?”
“Hell no.” She wrinkles her nose. “Enough about him.” She waves me off. “We dodged him for a reason.”
“Are we being too harsh?”
“Harsh is direct and unforgiving,” she says. “That’s how you send a clear message. My dad sent one to me after he left home when I was eleven. That’s why I know Murray, the eighteen-year-old star wide receiver of Stillwell Trail’s football team, can handle one too.”