Page 61 of The Roads We Follow

Dear Chickee,

For months we’ve listened to Troy’s lectures about the importance of protecting Luella’s public image from the press. There are all sorts of rules we follow to ensure she’s perceived as single and desirable even though she’s been married to his business partner for over a year. So far, it’s been easy to trick the world as people believe whatever story we tell them from the stage about us being two regular chicks who chased a dream all the way from Idaho. But it’s when we’re all back home that I realize just how different things have become.

Since we’d agreed it would be best for us to continue living as roommates, I didn’t expect much to change other than the size of the house we purchased together with the private backyard, patio, and pool. But being single and having a married best friend and being single and having a single best friend are two different things. I try to explain this to Luella on the nights Russell doesn’t sneak over and we can actually talk the way we used to, but I don’t think she quite understands what I’m saying.

Tonight, when I found theNational Enquirershoved in the kitchen trash featuring an unflattering picture of me next to the stunning Luella with a caption that read:Life inLuella’s Shadow, all I wanted was to run to my best friend for comfort. But her husband was over and her door was locked, so instead, I sat on the sofa alone and ate a bowl of pistachio ice cream.

I love you,

Lynn

16

Micah

Three synchronized vibrations startle me from a dead sleep. Delirious, I shield my eyes against the amber haze slicing between the drapes and the wall and work to place where I am and why I’m lying on top of a mattress fully dressed. But my line of questioning halts the instant I eye the sleeping beauty at the foot of the bed.

Raegan.

At the sight of her dark curls cascading over the white pillowcase, the events of the last night flash through my mind like the flipped pages of a graphic novel: The nightclub. The mural. The mob. The bar rescue. The vomit hat. The cleanup. The intoxicated sister asleep on the sofa. The hours Raegan and I spent talking and reading journal entries and nearly ... I swallow.

I’d almost kissed her. In truth, I don’t think it’s possible to be any more kissable than Raegan Farrow. But unlike Sleeping Beauty, a kiss is not what she needs most right now.

I scrub a hand down my face and remind myselfonce againwhy it’s imperative to implement boundaries. First, she’s barely one foot out of a complicated relationship with her ex. Second, we’re only hours away from being stuffed back into a tin can with her family, where there is hardly enough privacy to breathe much less figure out what this is between us. And third, and perhaps most important, she doesn’t value open communication. The secrets Raegan is keeping are living on borrowed time, and seeing as I represent the collateral damage of such a secret-keeper, I can’t affirm the stance she’s taken.

Yet at the same time, I also can’t ignore the way my blood turns molten whenever she’s near.

The three phones go off again on the desk like an SOS, and I’m careful to navigate around her adorable socked feet without disturbing her and quickly silence each device. It’s not until I swipe to unlock my phone that I read the red-lettered warning affixed to my home screen: Severe Storm Alert. There’s a straight-line windstorm headed through Texas and Oklahoma, with winds upwards of seventy miles per hour and hail.

Adrenaline swamps my insides as I click into the report and then to the weather radar, which confirms our worst-case scenario for today’s driving itinerary. According to this, chances are good Cheyenne’s flight in Amarillo will be canceled, and whatever else Luella had planned there simply isn’t worth the risk. We’ll need to head north. I grip the back of my neck and track the oncoming hailstorm’s predicted arrival time.

We need to get on the road.Soon.

But as I begin to calculate a new route for us, the logistics involved in rousing the troops for such an early travel time begin to read like a bad math story problem in my head: If it’s currently 5:15 a.m. and there are five Farrow women asleep in three different hotel rooms, how long will it take to load a tour bus? Special considerations of note: one Farrow is a country music legend, another Farrow is furious at said country music legend, and still another Farrow smells like she spent the night hugging the toilet.

Answer: I’m screwed.

I glance over at Hattie on the sofa and recall the numerous times Raegan woke to assist her in the night any time she coughed or moaned or lost her blanket to the floor. Sometime around three, when Hattie had yet another retching episode in the restroom, I proposed we tag-team any future wake-ups. Too exhausted to argue with me, Raegan accepted my help the next two times her sister needed attention. I look between the two sleeping women now, torn at whom to wake first. Ultimately, I choose Hattie. A few extra minutes of sleep won’t make much of a difference in her condition, and it will likely take her twice as long as the others to perform the basic function of walking to the lobby. At this rate, she’ll need close to a day to recover, as well as a few gallons of water to drink. I had a college roommate who taught me all I needed to know about the cruelty of hangovers my freshman year.

I crouch down in front of her and repeat her name numerous times in a low voice until she makes a sound that’s almost human.

“Hey, Hattie. We need to get on the road soon. Can you open your eyes?”

She pries her eyelids open and studies me for several seconds. “Micah?”

“Morning.” I smile, careful to keep my volume low. “Did you hear me? You’re gonna have to walk down to the bus in a few minutes.” She starts to push up on her elbow, and I grip her arm to assist. “Not too fast,” I caution. “When you can, place both your feet on the floor to ground yourself. It will help with your equilibrium and balance.”

I wait for her to adjust her T-shirt and uncurl her legs from the sofa cushion. The instant her feet hit the floor, her hands fly to her head and she sways forward. I catch her shoulders and help her lean against the backrest.

“My head is pounding,” she complains.

“Do you have any more of those crackers Raegan gave you last night?”

“I think so.”

I search the table and hand her a few before giving her a couple of ibuprofen. “Take these with a full glass of water. Slowly.” She sways again, and I realize moving her is going to be much more difficult than I anticipated. “Where’s your room key? I’ll grab the rest of your bags and come back here after I wake the others. How ’bout you just focus on drinking your water, okay?”

She blinks at me several times without answering, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to repeat myself all over again when she shocks me with “You’re like her, you know?”

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