Page 126 of How You See Me
“What?”
“Maybe he can help. It’s a lot on your mom to—”
“No.” I don’t mean to snap, but the idea of him waltzing back into our lives like he hasn’t been absent all these years is not something I can accept. And it's the very last thing I want to talk about. “Sorry.”
She studies me for a moment, probably thinking I need to get it all out in the open and start working through my animosity. That’s not going to happen. Simply thinking about him does unhealthy things to me, and I always spiral. Rage always wins and turns me into someone I hate. Talking about it would only make it worse. That’s why it’s better for everyone if I avoid and suppress. Keep my memories of him buried like he doesn’t exist. If he’s trying to worm his way back into her life, I hope Mom does the same. He shouldn’t be allowed to pretend he suddenly cares. And he certainly doesn’t deserve her forgiveness.
“Hard shell tacos or soft?” she asks, hooking an arm around mine and pointing me toward the exit and a safer topic. She always knows what I need.
“Both.”
“I’m a quesadilla girl myself. Salsa or guacamole?”
“Salsa.”
She smiles up at me, and it’s all I need to center myself, remember the mission, and get back to the contentment she so easily brings out in me.
“Good. Can I have your guacamole?”
Leaning down, I peck her cheek. “You can have whatever you want.”
Chapter 27
Josie
I’m half distracted as we travel down the highway, sketching in my notebook and admiring the surreal desert outside the van windows. The colors, the dry breeze, and the way the horizon stretches forever—it’s nothing like Virginia. Here, everything’s wide open and vast, like nature’s progress pressed pause here.
Then, without warning, Hayes yanks the van off the road.
My sketchbook flies off my lap as I brace both hands on the dash. This time, unfortunately, it’s not my seduction causing the pitstop.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but he’s already out the door.
I scramble after him and skid to a stop when I find him, one hand braced against the back bumper, the other straight out, telling me to stay back. His back ripples withtension before he stumbles around to the other side of the van, hiding his face from me.
“Hayes, are you sick?”
“Stay there.” His voice is raw and strained. Then, every muscle in his torso convulses, and he doubles over again.
I wince. “Oh, no.”
Feeling helpless, I rush to the van, grab a water bottle, and rush back to set it on the bumper. “Here.”
He grabs it and drains half in one long gulp, leaning against the rear door on a shaky arm.
“Thanks,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact.
“What can I do?”
He bends at the waist, hands on his knees, head hanging. “Don’t watch.”
But I’m concerned. He’s pale and sweating, and his face is flushed in a way that says something is deeplywrong, not just inconvenient.
He yanks off his T-shirt and wipes his face with it. Another wave hits, and I shrink away, nausea bubbling in my own gut. But it’s not sickness. It’s the helpless ache of knowing someone I care about is suffering, and I can do nothing to stop it.
I retreat to the van’s open side door, legs dangling, doing what I can to not break down. I braid, unbraid, and re-braid my hair to give my hands something to do. I try sketching, but my pencil barely moves.
I’ve always been the fixer. When Jordan and I were younger and our parents worked multiple jobs, I was the one who bandaged his scraped knees. I was the one whostayed calm when everything fell apart after they died. I’ve been the glue, the nurturer, the fixer all my life.
