she’s seen all that.” I lift my hands, moving them up and down indicating his body.
“You suck,” Ethan says as he turns and walks into the bathroom.
“Not yet!” I say. “But I’m willing!”
He stops and slowly turns to face me, one eye closed and the other open. “Get your ass in here, then,” he says.
I drop my sheet, he drops his pillow, and we close the bathroom door behind us and climb into the shower, where I prove that I’m most definitely not lying.
33
Ethan
“He’s fine,” Jake teases from where he’s sitting on a fallen log by the end of the road. He rests there with his elbows on his knees, staring up at me, the late afternoon sun on his face.
“What if he got on the wrong bus?” I ask.
“He didn’t get on the wrong bus,” Jake assures me. “You called the school, right? Told them Mitchell would be getting off here with my kids? He’ll be here any second.” He holds up his hands like he wants to ward me off. “Chill, dude. He’s fine.”
I pace up and down the side of the road. This is the first time Mitchell has gotten off the bus here, and I’m just afraid he forgot and he’s accidentally on the way to my mother’s house. My mom left this morning, after she took Mitchell to school, for a girls’ weekend with a group of her friends. She said she had margaritas in her future, whatever that meant.
Finally, I hear the heavy whine of the bus as it tops the hill. “There they are,” Jake says with a grin. “Told you so.”
“Just because the bus is almost here doesn’t mean he’s on it,” I mutter. I swipe a hand across my mouth in frustration.
But the bus stops and I see three figures stand up. Jake only has two. Mitchell is the third. He bounds off the bus behind Trixie and Alex and flings himself at me. The bus driver glares at me and the bus pulls away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. “You’re here,” I say.
“I know,” Mitchell says, beaming at me. “It’s great, right? I get to stay the whole weekend?”
I nod, although I’m pretty sure that Mitchell isn’t going home on Sunday night. He’s going to stay, at least until he gets tired of me, which I hope is never.
Jake walks away with his two kids, giving us a quick wave and a smirk in my direction. Kind of an I told you so look.
Jake has been doing this dad thing a lot longer than I have.
We walk toward the campground, and Mitchell stops and looks at me, his brow furrowed. “Where’s the tent?”
“I packed it up,” I inform him.
He hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder, so I reach over and take it from him. He must have brought everything he owns.
“Where are we going to sleep?” he asks. He doesn’t look too pleased.
“Well, that’s a surprise,” I say. I start toward the cabin the Jacobsons are letting me use.
“There’s Abigail,” Mitchell says. Then he looks confused. “And an old Abigail.” He looks at me. “Who’s that?”
Abigail and her grandmother do look a lot alike. They both have that same curly hair, although Mrs. Marshall’s hair is shorter and more salt than pepper at this point. But they have very similar features, and they’re built the same, both tall and willowy, although Mrs. Marshall has a noticeable stoop to her shoulders.
“That’s Mrs. Marshall,” I explain. “Abigail’s grandmother.”
“She’s really old,” he says, the way only a child can get away with.
Abigail and her grandmother must have been outside watering flowers because Mrs. Marshall is holding a garden hose, soaking the bushes in front of the cabin. Mrs. Marshall turns the garden hose toward Mitchell, pretending like she doesn’t see him standing there.
“Whoops!” she says when she pretends to notice him, as she almost sprays him. “Didn’t see you there.”
Mitchell grins and looks up at me for guidance. “You don’t want to mess with her,” I say behind my hand. “The Marshall women are sneaky.”
“We heard that,” they both sing out in unison, and then they both start laughing.
Mrs. Marshall sets her hose to the side. “Who’s this young man?”
“This is my son, Mitchell,” I say. I gently shove him toward her when he doesn’t say anything. “Say hello, Mitchell,” I tell him.
“Hello, Mitchell,” he parrots.
Mrs. Marshall guffaws and scruffs the top of his head.
“Did you take the bus home, Mitchell?” Abigail asks. I’ve probably worried the fool out