Chapter 45
Why the hell would Mr. Wyomen write me a letter of recommendation?
I turn the thought over in my mind on the drive home from work. Victor must have told him about it, probably to show off, but then Mr. Wyomen took it one step further, writing the letter himself to win bonus points and snag Whitley’s attention. It’s the only logical explanation.
And honestly? I don’t really care why he did it.
If it’s convincing and already submitted to the scholarship committee like my counselor said, then that’s good enough for me. But I’m afraid Whitley will care. She’ll see it as a betrayal, as me conspiring against her with her dad. And if she thinks that, it will only push us further apart.
At night, I spread out at the kitchen table to research our road trip. If I can’t turn back time to coyote hunt, I can at least prove that I’m still committed to our plan. That our escape from Penango is still one of my top priorities.
I devour online videos, skim best-of lists for every state on our itinerary, and queue up podcasts about the Shenandoah, New River Gorge, Mammoth Cave, and Great Smoky Mountains National Parks as if I’m writing a history paper on the American south.
My Appalachian podcasts might not have helped break the curse, but they definitely made me aware of obscure mountain sites no one would visit except for two kids who don’t have a clue what they’re doing.
Every few moments, my mind drifts back to Whitley. Alone for the past two weeks. In pain, walking around with a broken ankle. It makes my head spin.
She’s the one who ended up as the lonely scarecrow, left in a field, picked at, prodded, and abandoned by everyone she trusts, while I had Xander.
I should have been the one facing summer alone with the way I acted, not her.
This won’t erase what happened, but it’s a starting point.
I want to show her that she’s not forgotten.
By the time my vision blurs from staring at the screen, I have enough of a plan to share. So the next morning I do what I should have done days ago.
I call Whitley.
“What?” she answers quickly. There’s a rush of background noise on her end, wind, static, and a distant blare of a car horn.
Sounds of a highway.
My stomach flips. What if she’s already left for school and she’s doing the road trip solo?
“Hey,” I say. “Where are you?”
“Driving. Why?”
“It sounds loud.”
“I’m on the freeway.”
“Where are you going?” I bite my fingernails.
“Why all the questions? Since when do you care what I’m doing?”
I rub my brow. “I’m calling to apologize.” She mumbles something I can’t understand. “Whitley?”
“Okay, good.” She sniffs. Her voice uneven. “Because otherwise I was sending you to voicemail. And I don’t listen to those.”
I let out a weak laugh, then exhale. “I don’t know where to start, but everything was a mess this summer,” I continue.
“I’ve never broken up with someone before.
I’ve never gone to college or worked full-time.
I’ve never been . . . kind of invisible.
” I pause. “It’s not an excuse, but that’s why I slipped up.
I didn’t know what I was doing. I was in too deep. I’m sorry.”
I suck in a breath.
“Yup,” Whitley finally speaks. “Go on.”
“I should’ve been there for Bennie. But most importantly, I should’ve been there for you.”
A turn signal clicks through my phone.
“We both had a lot going on.” Her voice cracks. “I was in a terrible mood when you came over that day and lashed out. I regret what I said.”
“Don’t. You were right.”
“Definitely on a few points.” She sniffs. “But I am sorry for what I said about Xander.”
“How come?”
“Because I should’ve trusted you too.” She clears her throat. “Do you know why I didn’t ask a million questions about you and Murray when you first told me you broke up? Even though I really, really wanted to?”
I swallow. “Why?”
“Because you didn’t tell me you were thinking about breaking up. You didn’t ask me what I thought. You just told me it was done. And I knew that meant you were sure.”
I nod even though she can’t see me.
“And after my grandma died and I told you I didn’t want to move in with my dad in Pittsburgh, you were the only one who didn’t second-guess me. Instead, you helped me change the locks so he couldn’t make a surprise visit to drag me there.”
I chuckle.
“We’ve always been so sure of ourselves.”
“I guess.”
“Stetson, you are the bravest, most intense person. You came out in tenth grade in Penango of all places. You like math like a weirdo and you’re not ashamed of it. You got a crush on a boy, fell in love with him, and then fell out of love. Now you like another boy who might be make-believe.”
“Okay, you’re being corny.”
“Only honest.” She inhales. “Xander means a lot to you. And I shouldn’t have doubted. I might’ve just been jealous.”
I shake my head. “You’ll always be the mountain to my field.”
“Who’s corny now?”
I smile. “So, where are you actually driving to? I hope it’s not to Florida. Because I made an itinerary for our road trip and want to show you.”
“Wow, so this isn’t an empty apology? I’m driving to Main Street to set up my clarinet for a performance during our lunch break. This is a big moneymaking day.”
“Can I come by and see you?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I miss you.”
Silence falls over our conversation like a cloud blocking the sun.
“Whitley?” I ask. “Whitley, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Can I visit?” My breath catches.
“Yes.”
I exhale.
“But only if you apologize again.”
I laugh. “I’m so, so sorry. It will never happen again.”
“Apology accepted. And then you need to give me twenty dollars for pain and suffering.”
“Are you serious?”
“No. I make more money than you do.”
I shake my head. “Where are you posting up?”
“Outside the salon. The old ladies are always very generous because they knew Grandma.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Don’t take too long.”
I shift in my seat. “Actually, Whitley, before we meet, I have something to tell you.”
I need to be up-front about her dad’s letter. Otherwise, my apology is meaningless, like watering a dead flower.
Be up-front. Be honest.
She groans. “Are we seriously only going to be friends again for five seconds?”
I sigh. “I hope not.” I scratch the back of my head. “For some reason, your dad wrote my second letter of recommendation. I never asked him to! I swear. I don’t know why he did it and I—”
“Stetson, you idiot. I wrote that.”
My jaw drops. “You . . . what?”
“I wasn’t going to let Victor ruin our road trip. There are only so many people who will look after you besides yourself. My dad is not one. Neither is Murray. And neither is Victor. I knew that the moment we met him. If we don’t have each other in this town, then we have no one.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “Whitley, I don’t deserve you.”
“Yeah, I know. But you sure as hell need me.”
The salon is about half a podcast episode away from home. I park along an alley, then sprint toward Main, my shoes stumbling over the bumpy brick sidewalk. The summer grass has conquered the century-old path, forcing its way through every cracked joint. By the time I turn the corner, I’m sweating.
Then I trip over an empty clarinet case. My arms flail as I lurch forward, barely catching myself before my face meets a brick wall.
“Stetson!”
I turn.
Whitley stands behind a white mop bucket full of change and crumpled dollar bills. Her clarinet is pressed to her lips. Her eyes widen before she cuts her song short with a sharp, awkward note.
“You scared me,” she says, clutching her instrument. “I thought you were a thief coming for my money.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I pull her into the tightest hug I can muster. And I don’t let go.
Her shoulders shake beneath my hands, and her whole body is solid, real, and grounding like a life preserver, because that’s what she is for me. My lifesaver. She kept me afloat all summer, hell, my whole time on earth.
If Louise Gregor and Abigail Mattson came to me in a dream and offered me a spell to start new anywhere in the world, I’d decline. Because I wouldn’t risk missing the exceptionalism of Whitley Wyomen.
“Stetson, I can’t breathe,” she chokes. “Let go of me.”
I loosen my grip, my chin still resting on her bony shoulder. For a time, everything on Main Street looks normal. Two boys lick ice-cream cones on a nearby bench. A man in a hard hat and orange vest leans against a lamppost. An elderly woman disappears into the antique store.
And Whitley and I stand here, just a girl and a boy who want more, who want to reach the next intersection beyond Penango’s single stoplight.
“Thank you, Whitley,” I whisper.
“You can thank me by stepping aside.” She nods toward the bucket. “You’re blocking people’s access to my bucket.”
I jump over her earnings with a laugh. Then I raise a finger. “Wait. Did you send the letter from your dad’s email? I can’t believe the counselor didn’t suspect anything.”
She smirks. “Yeah. He uses the same password for all his log-ins. He’s not hard to hack. I’ve been eyeing his bank account too. Just in case.” She winks.
“What did he think of your research? Did it help fix things a little?”
She lowers her chin. “It did nothing.”
“Really?”
She shrugs, shifting her clarinet to her other hand. “I mean, I didn’t think it was going to magically fix our relationship. I just wanted to show off a bit.” She holds out her phone. “But he was beyond unimpressed.”
I take her phone and read:
Dad: Whitly. Thanks for sending thiss. Your paper looks
okay. I found an old researchj paper of mine that received
a lot of praise. I jst emailad it to you for reviewe.
Whitley: Okay
Dad: Youy should take a look at the research methodas
section in my papper. Perhaps you could incorporater some
of the theories from there iinto your work to make it better.
Whitley: I sent my paper to you because it was finished.
Dad: I think it’s a good first draftt. Let me know if you
want me to provide editds.
“Ouch,” I say with a grimace, handing back her phone. “Why are there so many typos? Was he—”
“Drunk,” she says. “Yeah, probably.”
I hang my head. “I’m sorry, Whitley.”
She smiles. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I actually like the response.”
I blink. “Really?”
She exhales. “Yeah. I mean, if he’d been nice, what was I supposed to do then? Have him in my life?” Her arms hang at her sides. “I’ve basically made it through half my life without him. This just proves that’s how it’s meant to be.”
“You’re sure?”
She turns back to me, eyes sharp. “Bennie is worth seeking revenge. You’re worth a lie. My dad is not. See how it works? You have to drop some weight to make it out of Penango.”
I nod slowly.
“When you reach out to people and they don’t respond, that’s their response. Life really isn’t all that complicated.”
I see it playing out, but I’m not sure I understand why life works the way it does.
Some people are meant to be in our lives for brief moments, others forever.
But time doesn’t always equal impact. Some creeks run shallow for decades, trickling along the banks, steady but insignificant.
Others rage after a storm, rushing in for a day, shifting shorelines, uprooting trees, flooding everything in their wakes, then they vanish.
The hardest part is knowing when to leave the shallow creek that’s always been there but no longer serves me, and when to dive into something deeper, even if I don’t know where it leads.
Whitley and I are choosing to dive in. Our river is flowing somewhere new. And we’re about to explore the unfamiliar landscape together.
A hiccup from Whitley catches my attention. I turn to her, and she’s sobbing.
“Whitley, oh my gosh.” I pull her into a hug. “It’s okay.”
“He spelled my name wrong,” she says. “Like, who does that?” She blows snot on my shirt.
“No one worth your time.” I comb her hair with my fingers.
“What kind of dad can’t spell their daughter’s name?”
“We’re almost out of here.”
“Did you get the scholarship?” Whitley asks, voice shaking. “Please say yes.”
I exhale. “I don’t know yet. But I’m leaving regardless. I want to be with you. If it’s not school, I’ll find something else to do outside Penango. Maybe I’ll serve smoothies on the beach somewhere in Florida.”
She smiles through a cry, then sets her clarinet down to hold me closer. “Where’s our first stop on the trip?”
“New River Gorge National Park in West Virginia.”
She raises a finger. “Remember we have a dog in recovery, so we can’t do any intense hikes.”
“Got it.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“Maybe next week. School starts August twentieth or something. That gives us two weeks on the road.”
She dabs tears from her cheeks. “What are you going to tell Xander?”
I press my lips together.
I’m still figuring that part out.