Chapter 29
SADIE
Milo turns into a motel. Stars replaced the sun three hours ago, and I can feel the weariness in my bones from not sleeping the night before when I was buzzing with excitement of getting in his truck with no plans but to leave Dusty Hollow.
According to the GPS on Milo’s phone, we’ve got a little over five hours left on the road tomorrow to arrive in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
“I’ll get us a room. Two beds,” he says as he gets out of the truck.
I nod and then lay my head back, already thinking about a warm shower and a fluffy pillow. “Thanks.”
I didn’t expect two separate rooms, and the truth is I don’t want to be alone. Alone has been my anthem for too long, a quietness that feels heavy at times, like an anchor wrapped around my heart keeping me from drifting out to sea to discover what lies beyond.
I pretend I’m floating, sleep lulling me easily.
Something soft rubs against my cheek before I jostle awake. My eyes are slow to open and even slower to focus. Milo’s face hovers above me, and that’s when I realize I’m in his arms. He’s carrying me. Again, but this time it’s in public.
His eyes meet mine as he balances me while using a key card to unlock a door. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
I scramble to stand up like the adult woman I am, feeling my cheeks flush. “Sorry,” I say, my feet fumbling beneath me. He leaves his arm around me to keep me steady.
“Sorry for what? Being tired?” He smiles as he opens the door with the hand that isn’t resting against my ribs.
I take a step back, wiping at my clothes. “You could have just woken me up,” I mumble.
“You looked too peaceful,” he replies.
I swallow. “My suitcase.”
“I’ll get it,” he says as he lets go of me and gestures toward the open door. “Why don’t you pick what bed you want? I’ll be right back.”
I nod, walking through the doorway.
The room is standard. Two queen beds with quilts that seem to be made of burgundy plastic. Carpet with fewer fibers than a pair of socks. A television, small refrigerator, and an air freshener in the corner puffing out fragrance to make you believe the room is clean.
I choose the bed farthest from the door.
Milo returns in less than three minutes with my heavy suitcase and a backpack.
“Is that all you brought?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t need much.”
He shuts the door, making sure all three locks are secured, then turns to assess the room. “Not bad,” he says, his tone teasing.
I laugh. “Not great, either.”
“It’ll do for the night.” He crosses the room to grab a flimsy stand that doesn’t look nearly strong enough to hold my suitcase, but he attempts it anyway. “What all did you bring?”
“I didn’t know where we were going, so I kind of packed a little of everything,” I say, defending my very full suitcase with the zipper struggling to keep it all together.
“Fair enough,” he replies, taking off his hat to run a hand through his wild blond hair.
“Milo?” My voice sounds small.
He looks up at me, eyes wide. “I’m here.”
“Thank you.”
He nods, no other words needed between us. “Do you need a shower?”
I stand from the bed, my body heavier than I remember it being this morning. “Yeah.”
“Did you pack your shower in this suitcase? Because it’s probably more sanitary than what’s in there,” he jests as he tilts his head toward the bathroom.
“Unfortunately, no. I’ll just have to brave it,” I reply with a slight smile.
“Do it for the plot.” He repeats the phrase he told me before climbing the water tower, words that bolstered me in the moment my heart needed it.
I laugh lightly. “Sadie Summers Conquers the Gross Motel Shower,” I say.
“Not all plot points are grand. History proves that small battles can have a large impact.”
“Okay, Mr. Carter.”
“It’s true. There are times in history where winning a smaller battle lifted morale and made the odds of victory seem much more favorable.”
“It’s a shower, not a battlefield,” I tease.
“Potato, potahto,” he replies.
“No. It’s more like potato, tomato,” I say as I practically hug my suitcase to unzip it all the way.
I sort through my clothes, finding my pajamas—a blue checkered tank-top-and-short set.
Then I look back to Milo, who is intently watching me, the realization causing my spine to tingle, and say, “I can’t promise I won’t take all the hot water. ”
He laughs lightly. “Take your time. Temperature doesn’t matter to me.”
The shower is more like a battlefield than I expected it to be—stained in ways bleach can’t hide.
I undress and jiggle the shower handle for what feels like five minutes before the temperature is somewhere between scorching and ice.
I tentatively tiptoe in, closing my eyes as the warm water sputters over me indifferently. It doesn’t care if I like it.
Once I’m finished, I dry off with the thin, tattered towel and slip on my pajamas, then gather up the clothes I wore today in my arms. My hair is a wet, knotted mess–the conditioner is not exactly conditioning.
I walk out of the bathroom more timidly than I stepped into the shower, peeking around the corner. Milo’s lying on his bed on top of the comforter, eyes closed. His breathing is heavy and slow, his chest moving up and down in a steady rhythm.
There’s part of me that wants to curl up beside him, putting my head on his chest to hear the comfort of his heartbeat, but the other part of me wins out.
I quietly walk to my bed, slipping beneath the scratchy sheets.
I reach over to turn off the light but hear something crinkle beneath my body.
I sit up, inspecting my bed, and find a note. I smile as I unfold it.
Bookworm,
Since you seem determined to keep me from apologizing, I’m writing it out because there’s an ache in my chest full of apologies.
I chose football. I chose pride. I chose what I thought was different from my dad.
But it wasn’t so different. It was a bad choice that has left me with a regret I’ll live with for the rest of my life.
I wasn’t there for you and I’m so sorry.
Most people celebrate the fact that “I made it,” but every time they look at me, proud of what I accomplished, all I see is your face in their eyes, and I’d give it all up if I was offered a do-over.
Hot Shot
The tears burn hot as they trail down my cheeks. I’ve kept Milo from apologizing because I knew that once he did, forgiveness would be my only choice—and once I had forgiven Milo, I knew I’d have to figure out how to forgive myself.
And I’m not sure I know how to do that, because it’s deeper than an apology. Deeper than seeing myself in the mirror.
I wipe the tears from my face with my palms.
As I reach over to turn out the light, I pause, looking at Milo, the steady rise and fall of his chest reminding me that even with all the apologies in the world, he’s still the Milo I once knew—and I think I can still trust him.
We were just kids.
I think we deserve another chance.
I slide off my bed, quietly tiptoe to his side, and press my lips lightly to his forehead. “I’m sorry, too,” I whisper.
Then I turn out the light, tuck the note under my pillow, and let the exhaustion of the day finally catch me.