Page 10 of Full Split
"Damn straight," he says, already stretching across the back row with his headphones on and laptop balanced across his thighs. "Thirteen hours of naps, movies, and road snacks. Don't talk to me unless someone's dying."
I smirk as Wyatt slides into the driver's seat. Road trips were always bonding time for me and Wyatt. Hell, I think one of the reasons he always invited me to ride with them was so Wyatt had someone to talk to. Weston always ends up zoning out on whatever movie or show he's bingeing and ultimately snoring in the back seat. I always wanted to ride up front and talk, point out various sights, and play car games. Maybe neither of us knew it at the time, but it was definitely because I was enamored by him. Call it daddy issues or whatever you will, but I soaked up his attention like a dehydrated sponge on a rainy day.
Wyatt looks over at me from the corner of his eye before he adjusts the mirror and pulls out of the driveway.
Oh yeah, this is going to be fun. Messing with Wyatt is going to be the perfect distraction.
CHAPTER 4
WYATT
Thirteen hours in a car with Niles Pruitt. I must be out of my damn mind.
It's true that I absolutely hate flying and will gleefully drive for days to avoid an airport. Normally, Niles and I have a lot of fun on these trips. But this time is different than it's ever been before. I can feel the air between us, oppressive and humid. No matter how much I blast the air conditioner, it does nothing to relieve the thickness in the air. It's made for a long road trip. Especially when all my attempts at normal conversation or our typical road games have been met with innuendo or knowing smirks.
Weston is dead to the world in the back seat, headphones on and his hoodie pulled over his face. He said he was going to binge watchSquid Games, but I'm pretty sure he's out cold again. He has been most of the drive.
We're about halfway through the trip, and still quite a few hours from Illinois. We stopped for lunch at a rest stop off the interstate, finding a shaded spot in the grass under some trees. We laid out a blanket and stretched our legs and ate the packed lunches Brianne made us chopped Cobb salads with coldgrilled chicken, corn cut off the cob, and avocado salsa. She also included a container of the little quinoa cakes she makes that Weston insists he doesn't like the smell of but always ends up devouring. She even packed us individual containers with fruit, complete with our names and little stick figures drawn on the lids. Mine is holding what I'm assuming is a stopwatch, Weston's is flexing huge biceps, and Niles' is doing a cartwheel under a rainbow.
Niles’ mom is a truly special woman. She's always been so determined to make up for what Niles' dad lacked or left behind after leaving. She's the strongest woman I know. She was a huge support to me when Weston was little and I was working overtime to make ends meet. We helped each other, and in a way, we were able to provide our boys with both a mother figure and a father figure.
I'll never forget the first time I met Brianne and Niles, though I can't for the life of me remember what name she'd introduced Niles as that first class. He was adorable, with dark curly hair and big, observant, stormy blue-grey eyes. He and Weston took to each other immediately. It wasn't until we got to talking a little more that we realized we were neighbors. My parents had all but disowned me when they found out I'd gotten someone pregnant, but my uncle had just moved out of the country for a contractor job with the military and let us rent his house from him for far less than what it was worth. It was still more than I could afford, but it was unlikely that I'd be able to find someone else willing to rent to a seventeen-year-old with no credit or references. It's a beautiful house with a big yard that I could have only dreamed of providing for Weston back in those days. Brianne helped me buy the house after she'd gotten her real estate license and I'd finally started making decent money once I finished college. I was lucky enough to put my computerscience degree to work and get a great job working from home as a penetration tester for a large cybersecurity company. I've worked for the same company ever since, and it's afforded me a lot of opportunities to be present in Weston and Niles' lives. Along with the flexibility to work from anywhere I can bring my laptop, the pay is enough that I could provide my son with a secure life.
I sent Brianne a text thanking her for the lunch and some pictures of the boys making a spectacle of themselves doing flips and tricks in the large green space. They've done this almost every time we've stopped to stretch their legs and get out some restless energy, and it almost always draws a few onlookers. I clapped along with them after Niles wowed with a small, difficult part of his floor routine.
"Nice job, kiddo!" I said proudly, thumping him on the back. We'd headed back to the car feeling energized.
Or at least I did. Weston was yawning before we even got back on the interstate. Now he's sprawled out in the back seat, long limbs folded over in a way that only a young gymnast could be comfortable. He's got his big over-ear headphones on, and they're crooked from how his head is pressed up against the door. It looks terribly uncomfortable, but he's snoring away. He's always been like this. Ever since he was a baby, car rides knocked him out. I used to drive him around the block just to get him to sleep on those hard sleep-regression nights or when he was teething.
Some things never change, I guess. Road trips always end up being just me and Niles, but this time it's different.
Niles is in the passenger seat beside me, legs pulled up under him, sunglasses perched on top of his head. He's picking atthe label on a bottle of water like it's personally offended him. His phone is face-down in the console cupholder, but he's been checking it nonstop. I don't ask about the news or press vultures, knowing that if he wants to talk, he will. I'm here for him either way. That's how we've always worked. Only he's not talking to me now.
What if the constant notifications are from that dating app he used to hook-up with that asshole? He wouldn't be sitting in the seat next to me, chatting up some middle-aged twat, would he? What if he's setting up a date or a hook-up or whatever it is he does? Would he try to find someone on the road, meet them at the hotel?
The idea sits heavy in my gut, and I find myself sneaking glances at him and flinching every time he checks his phone. I want to ask, but I don't. I don't want him to think I don't believe he can handle himself. I don't think that. He can. That's not the issue.
So what is the issue, then?
Me.The issue is me. And the quiet, insistent twist of jealousy I'm too ashamed to name.
Where did this even come from? It doesn't seem possible that a switch could just flip this fast.
But it has, and I don't know what to do about it.
Somewhere between picking him up from that bar and this road trip, in the very seat he's sitting in now, something has changed. Or, if his teasing is to be believed, maybe it didn't change. Maybe I'm just seeing it now.
He's quiet for a while, staring out the window as trees, houses, and long stretches of farmland blur past. I can feel the tension pulsing off him in waves, like static before a storm.
"You okay?" I ask finally.
He scoffs. "That depends. You going to call me 'kiddo' again?"
I glance over at him. He's smirking, but there's something pointed beneath his usual carefree expression. He never did like it when I called him things like that, but I never put together how much or why until this moment.
"I only do that when you're being a smartass," I joke.
"I'm always a smartass."
