Chapter Sixteen
The Spray Paint
Ingrid
Wilder pulls into a parking spot in front of a rundown gas station outside Amarillo. I stretch in the back as he and Cash unbuckle and slide out of their seats.
But I stay perfectly still, trying to recall if I really heard what I think I did.
You have to tell her, Wild. Don’t keep something this big from her.
My stomach tightens.
I know Wilder is hiding something and by the way Cash said it, it can’t be good.
I just can’t possibly imagine what it could be. Maybe something with his mom. Or his Grandpa.
He would tell me if it was serious… right?
Someone’s knuckles rap against the glass window, interrupting my mini spiral.
Wilder’s standing there, his sunglasses hiding his eyes.
I open the car door.
“Yeah?”
“You said you had to pee,” he reminds me.
Swallowing hard, I nod my head. “Yeah. I hadn’t forgotten.”
Wilder laughs. “Are you okay? You’ve been weird all day.”
“Fine,” I lie as I awkwardly slip out of the car.
My foot gets caught on the door frame and I nearly plummet to the hot asphalt below, but Wilder’s hand reaches out and steadies me.
“Blondie.” Wilder chuckles roughly. “What’s going on?”
I swallow hard as I right myself.
Lie, Ingrid. Lie!
“Still recovering from last night,” I say, plastering a smile to my face.
But Wilder misses nothing. He sees right through me.
Instead of pushing, he tugs me into his arms, and I lay my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
As I lean into him—and breathe him in—all the worries start melting away.
I feel better this close to him, but I know the moment he lets go, the cold will creep in again.
He kisses the top of my head and I close my eyes, holding on as tight as I can.
“I’m right here, Ingrid,” he says softly.
“I know,” I whisper, pulling back to gaze up at him.
Golden flecks catch in his green eyes beneath the late afternoon sun.
His fingers drag through my hair. “Hopefully this place has spray paint.”
“I’m sure they do,” I say.
He drapes his arm over my shoulders as we head inside.
And because I have a fear of being attacked in a gas station bathroom, he waits right outside the door while I go.
I take a long moment to stare at myself in the hazy mirror.
This place doesn’t have air conditioning and sweat breaks out along my neck.
My phone keeps vibrating in my back pocket, but I’m off grid this summer.
The bathroom door bangs open and three women walk in giggling. They’re probably a little older than I am, but they’re loud enough in this small space to overhear.
“Did you see his eyes?” one of the girls says.
Another one pretends to fan herself with her hand. “So damn sexy.”
“You should ask for his number,” the third one pipes up as one of them quickly glances at me, then looks away.
“I don’t know,” the first one says. “A guy that hot probably has a girlfriend.”
“He didn’t have a ring on his finger,” the third one argues. “If they’re not married, they’re fair game.”
I finish washing my hands and reach for a paper towel.
Except there aren’t any.
Figures.
All three girls head into the stalls as I dry my hands on my jean shorts.
They keep talking. Going on and on about the hot guy when it dawns on me that other than Wilder and me, Cash was the only other person in this gas station.
Do they have a crush on Cash?
I hurry out of the bathroom to tell Wilder.
“You’ll never guess who those girls were falling all over in the bathroom,” I whisper-yell to Wilder.
He shrugs. “No idea, Blondie.”
I point to Cash across the way. “Cash, obviously.”
Then, I tilt my head to the side as Wilder says, “Is he looking at a box of condoms?”
Yep. That’s exactly what he’s looking at.
“Do you think he’s preparing for, you know, when he meets Britta?” I wonder aloud.
“God, I hope so,” Wilder exhales.
We wander over as Cash puts one box back and picks up another.
“Extra small, huh?” Wilder teases Cash.
Cash’s neck instantly reddens.
When he turns around, his face is the same shade.
“I’m doing… research,” he says, failing miserably.
“Well,” Wilder says with a shit-eating grin, “let me educate you.” Then, he picks up a box.
“I suggest the ultra-thin, non-latex condoms,” he continues this tireless charade.
I roll my eyes. “Never know when a conquest might have a latex allergy. And, as Fanny Allred has taught us all, you always—and I mean, always wrap it up.”
Cash narrows his blue eyes. “Do you wrap it up?”
Wilder points to himself. “Me?”
“Yes, you, Wild.”
“This isn’t about me,” Wilder coolly replies. “This is about you.” There’s a beat before he adds, “And Britta?”
“I just want to be prepared,” Cash returns. “Just in case.”
Wilder smirks. “Then, I recommend the variety pack. Ultra-thin, ribbed for her pleasure, and extra heat.
I scrunch my nose. “What’s the extra heat part?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Cash answers.
“I wasn’t asking you,” I tell him. “I was asking Wilder.”
“Oh, Blondie,” Wilder chuckles low, “you couldn’t handle extra heat.”
I place my hands on my hips. “Try me.”
He shrugs. “Truce is over.”
“Convenient,” I say as something tingly and warm drips down my spine.
“We could—” Wilder begins but is interrupted by someone clearing their throat behind him.
He steps aside and there stands one of the three women who was crushing on Cash in the bathroom.
“I never do this,” she says, making eye contact with all three of us. “But I’m on a road trip with my best friends and I thought, why not?”
“Why not what?” Cash groans. He’s still holding a box of condoms. And so is Wilder.
Awkward.
She gives Cash a big smile, then turns to Wilder.
“When we made eye contact earlier—”
“As you were going into the bathroom?” Wilder asks, eyebrow raised.
“You remembered?” The woman sighs, splaying a hand on her chest. “So, you felt it, too?”
Oh gawd. She wasn’t talking about Cash. She was talking about Wilder!
“The urge to pee?” Wilder guesses.
“No, silly,” she coos, swatting at his arm. “The electric surge we experienced the second our eyes met.”
Wilder stares at her, bewildered. “I’m lost.”
“Then let me be the reason you’re found,” she says, voice low and sultry.
Lame.
“I think we got our wires crossed,” Wilder tells her as he shifts uncomfortably, the box of condoms in his hand a hilarious prop in this unfortunate turn of events.
“Yeah,” Cash says with a smile as he sidles up to Wilder and wraps his arm around him. Oh no. I know exactly where this is going.
“Babe, I thought we talked about this,” Cash continues. “You can’t keep stringing along women. It’s not fair to them.”
Wilder’s left eye twitches. He is hating this right now.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says through gritted teeth as he shoves Cash’s arm off him.
“It’s okay,” I add, surprised I’m inserting myself into this mess. “This is a safe space for you and Cash to be who you are.” I turn to the woman. “Their parents tried to keep them apart. You know, small town and all that drama.”
The woman clasps her hands under her chin. “Really? That’s awful.”
You’re awful, Wilder mouths at me.
I hide a smile behind my hand.
“Really,” Cash repeats as he lays his head on Wilder’s shoulder. “Wilder and I started out as friends who fell madly in love on… on…”
“The golf course!” I supply. “Wilder’s a caddy and Cash an up-and-coming pro golfer.”
Wilder’s mouth falls open.
“It’s been a long, hard journey,” I say, emphasizing the word hard as Wilder rolls his eyes. “But true love,” I say with a long sigh, “nothing can stop it, you know?”
The woman nods. “Agreed.”
“Well,” Cash says, “we should pay for all these condoms and get on our way.”
“I hope everything works out for you,” the woman says.
“Me too,” Cash returns.
Wilder runs a hand down his face.
“You two suck,” Wilder groans once the woman is out of earshot.
Cash and I burst into laughter.
“I mean it,” Wilder quietly chastises us. “That wasn’t cool.”
“I believe,” I say, clearing my throat, “you once told me if you were into guys, Cash would be your first pick.”
Cash looks to Wilder. “I am honored. Truly.”
Wilder shakes his head as we start searching for spray paint.
Miraculously, we find an entire row of it. Guess this gas station gets a lot of business from Cadillac Ranch.
We pay, drive down the road, and get out armed with spray paint and sunglasses.
“We should take a picture when we’re done!” Cash suggests.
The walk is longer than I expect, but once we reach the buried Cadillacs in the ground, I take a deep breath.
They’re covered in all kinds of spray paint.
I guess this is a popular stop along the long stretch of Texas plains to stretch your legs.
Wilder and Cash are already looking for a spot to spray paint as I take out my phone and start snapping photos of them.
It’s been a year since they’ve been like this. Laughing. Joking. Not at each other’s throats.
And I decide that whatever Wilder is hiding, it’s okay. If confiding in Cash made them trust each other again, it’s fine. Really.
“Blondie!” Wilder hollers for me. “Your turn.”
I shake my spray paint—bright pink—and then start writing.
When I stand back, Wilder wraps his arms around me.
Cash wrote No Turning Back in blue. I wrote No maps. And in black, Wilder wrote—
“I love you, Ingrid,” I read out loud.
“I do,” he whispers against my ear.
“You were supposed to write something fun,” Cash grumbles.
But staring at those words, I realize that Wilder isn’t like Cash and me. No, he feels things differently.
While we’ve been so focused on running from our problems—Archibald, Fanny, Isla, Jason and Jill—Wilder’s been running to something.
To the future.
With me.
I twist in his arms and face him.
“This was so sweet,” I say.
Cash pretends to vomit.
Instead of saying something, he hands Cash his phone.
“Take a photo of us,” Wilder instructs. “Then we’ll do a group photo.”
Wilder and I stand in front of the Cadillac with our spray-painted words on them.
We smile, arms wrapped around each other, while Cash snaps the photo. Then, we take way too many selfies with Cash.
It feels like old times.
But different somehow.
I still feel like the third wheel—standing on the outside of this lifetime friendship—but connected, too.
I never felt this way when Cash and I were together. He never made me feel as important as Wilder.
But Wilder?
He makes me feel like the most important person in his life.
“I’m thinking burgers and fries for dinner,” Wilder states as we make the long walk back to my car. “And before you say anything about a fucking salad,” Wilder warns Cash, “you have to at least try a French fry.”
“I’ll have one,” Cash promises.
Wilder yawns. “Good.”
“I’ll drive,” I announce as Cash reaches for the backseat door.
“Looks like it’s dinner then bed,” Cash says as Wilder tosses me the keys over the hood of the car.
“Looks like it,” I say with a smile.
We roll down the windows as the sun starts its slow descent in the sky, humid heat suffocating and heavy.
We still have a few hours of daylight left, but we decide to find the closest hotel, get some food in us, then sleep.
As Wilder’s hand finds my thigh, I glance over at him.
I was wrong about him for so many years.
Thank god Cash went to Europe last summer.
If he hadn’t, I never would have fallen in love with the love of my life.
I don’t believe in fate like Jill Winthrop does.
But damn, sometimes I think I should.