31
BRYN
For the first time since arriving at Paraiso, I’m itching to leave it.
This morning I’m up before my alarm and in a sundress and Chucks fifteen minutes later. Ten minutes after that, I’m dragging my suitcase down the stairs. It bursts at the zipper despite my plans to be away for only three days. After last night’s fight with Mitchell, I had just enough energy to throw my clothes haphazardly into my bag. I pretended each piece of clothing was every one of the harsh and hurtful words we said to one another, balled up and thrown inside.
I don’t even know what I packed, though my only plans are to veg on my dad’s fuzzy-soft velvet suede couch in front of his big screen and do absolutely nothing but eat and watch Gilmore Girls.
Scratch that—Veronica Mars. Because what I need right now is some girl power. My sister’s off to another foodie adventure, so I’ll have my dad’s house to myself during the day when he’s at work. I’ll order one each of everything on True North’s menu for pickup, stuff myself, then return to Paraiso with renewed vigor. With the rest of the week without the camera, I’ll prep for the opening. Maybe even walk around the house without a bra on.
That’s what I need—alone time. Me time. Without-Mitchell time.
I load my suitcase in my Mini Cooper’s trunk, grunting. How did I fit this in here last time? I push it in with the other things I promised my people: wine for my dad, hard cider for my tito and tita to sample for their restaurant. Macarons for Camille from Golden’s specialty dessert shop.
See, Mitchell, I’m not selfish. Look at all of these things I have for others. And hell, what have I been doing all my life—sitting on my ass? I’ve emotionally supported my dad and my sister. Worked extra and overtime without pay for the Bautistas. There’s nothing wrong with having goals, and there’s absolutely no crime in pursuing them.
Giving up on the task, I growl and push the suitcase in and lean against the hatchback, forcing it closed.
Take that, Mitchell.
I get into the car and drive down the hill. The GPS is set to the fastest way back to the Bay Area, and I intend on speeding, those cops be damned. I’m at once reminded of getting pulled over by Cody, of Mitchell laughing next to me. Of our time at Home Warehouse, where he kissed me in front of the camera for the first time.
Stop thinking of him.
Except I can’t, because as I reach the bottom of the hill, I squeeze past Mitchell’s truck, pulled off to the side of the gravel road. Its hood is raised, and a cloud of smoke wafts from the engine. Mitchell’s in front of it, one hand fiddling with the engine and the other holding his phone against his ear. His face has worry written all over it.
Shit.
The stubborn part of me tells me to ignore him, to keep going. Mitchell is a grown man, and he’s the one with the bullheaded attachment to a truck that only works half the time. He can take care of himself.
But there’s the other side of me, the side that cannot seem to shake him.
Even now, as I’m trying to run away from what he said, and oh God, what I said to him . . .
You’re not the person I thought you were.
How fucking stupid was I? How hurtful and mean. And a liar. Because he is exactly the man he has always been. I just wanted to hurt him. To hurt him in the same way he’d disappointed me. With hindsight is perfect vision. I should have reeled in the argument.
We were both out of line, and I’m sorry for my hand in it.
I stop and roll down the passenger-side window. The sharp smell of something burning reaches my nose. “Hey, you okay?”
He shakes his head, hangs up the phone, and walks to my side of the car. My heart pounds as he leans in. He smells clean, his face is newly shaved, sideburns trimmed. Such a small change in his appearance, and yet it switches his persona 180 degrees. A thin white undershirt reveals the outline of his pecs. The slacks he’s wearing have a crease line down the middle.
That crease makes me remember the date. “Today’s the retirement ceremony.”
“Yep. It starts in about three and a half hours. But as you can see . . .” He gestures at his truck, frustration written on his face. “Levi’s out for the morning. Cody’s sound asleep. Granny’s in Reno. So, it’s a taxi for me.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry.” And I mean it. It took mammoth effort for Mitchell to decide to attend. To be held back now . . .
“Tell me about it. The nearest car won’t get here for another half hour. Depending on traffic, it’s going to take at least three hours to get to San Francisco. I’ll be lucky to get there on time. Dammit.” His speech is edged with panic, and he continues a rant under his breath. He mutters the pros and cons of different courses of action he could take.
And, shit. He’s cornered me and he doesn’t even know it. The two sides of my brain scuffle for the right thing to do. What’s right in the human, friendly sense, versus what I think is right for me now. We aren’t supposed to be speaking to one another. Hours in the car alone might not be a good idea.
Yet if the tables were turned, Mitchell would have already loaded my bags into his car and started down the road.
I offer before I can talk myself out of it. “I’m headed into the city today, too. That’s actually where I’m going now.”
“Safe travels, and those speed limit signs? Remember they’re for the maximum speed, not minimum, okay?”
I laugh at Mitchell’s reference to my ticket. I guess he didn’t think I would help him either. “Just . . . just cancel your taxi.” When Mitchell looks at me as if I have two heads, I unlock the door. “C’mon, let’s get on the road.”
“Are you sure?”
I sigh. “Let’s go before I regret it, Dunford.”
“Damn, you have just saved this day.” He ducks through the window and loops his arm around my neck with a hug that is awkward at best.
But I almost don’t let go. When we untangle ourselves, I point right at his chest. “One thing. Truce. Let’s make it through the drive without wringing each other’s necks.”
“You’ve got it.” He kisses me on the cheek. It’s friendly and chaste and grateful. He lifts the hatchback and unloads the contents, declaring he’ll compensate me for gas, and he’ll owe me one. Then he repacks everything precisely so it all fits, and there’s room for a sliver of light in the rearview mirror.
“I didn’t realize you were a pack master. Call me impressed,” I say.
He shuts the hatchback easily and hops back into the passenger seat. “You should see what I can get into a rucksack. A backpack.” He grins, taps his temples. “Takes smarts.”
I roll my eyes. “My God, is it tight in here? Someone’s way too big for their britches.”
Mitchell’s all smiles, in a chatty mood once we get our seat belts on. It almost feels entirely normal, like we never fought.
Like we’ve always been together.