Fighting for Rain - BB Easton Page 0,68
my head, I bring it to my nose and inhale. The scent of Wes overpowers all my other senses, making me feel happy.
Making me feel brave.
I crack open my eyelids, letting in a tiny sliver of my surroundings, before I open them the rest of the way in surprise. We’re standing two feet in front of the faded green PRITCHARD PARK MALL exit sign next to the highway.
Wes wraps a firm hand around my jaw, holding it straight. “Don’t look anywhere but here, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply, too curious to be afraid.
I hear the metallic rattle again and smile when it gets louder and faster.
“I noticed this can of spray paint on the ground the other day, and it made me think of you.” Wes chuckles, shaking the can in his hand.
“Why me?” I smile.
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe because of the Welcome to Fucklin Springs sign in front of your house?”
I grin. “Shartwell Park is my personal favorite.”
“So, you admit that you’re a vandal?”
“I prefer the term wordsmith.” I smirk, accepting the can of neon-orange spray paint in Wes’s outstretched hand.
“See, take this sign.” I pop the cap off with an experienced thumb. “A vandal would just draw a coupla dicks on it and move on.” I cross out the P in Pritchard and easily turn the R into a letter B.
I can feel Wes grinning, but I’m too nervous to look over at him. Instead, I focus all my attention on the green-and-white—and now, neon-orange—sign in front of me.
“But not me.” I give the can a few more shakes and cover the RD with two big, bold Ss.
“Bitchass Park Mall,” Wes reads aloud with pride. “I didn’t even think to add the double Ss at the end. Nice.”
I turn and give him a little curtsy, but when I open my eyes, I not only see Wes; I see the entire mangled pileup behind him.
Quint and Lamar’s daddy’s bulldozer is a charred hunk of metal. The pavement around it, scorched and black. The tractor trailer on its side looks like a T-Rex took a bite out of it, and all around, pushed to the sides of the road, are the totaled and abandoned vehicles Quint cleared trying to get us through the pileup. I picture him lying on the pavement with that shard of glass sticking out of his neck. I picture Lamar, dazed and in shock with blood trickling into his eye from his lacerated eyebrow. I remember the sound of the explosion and the way twisted metal and broken glass rained down around us like confetti.
And then, I remember the way the inside of my mama’s helmet smelled when I put it on.
Like hazelnut coffee.
Like her.
The scene in front of me goes blurry as the memories line up along the edges of my mind, ready to march in one by one to destroy me. The first one charges, and it’s a doozy.
Christmas morning.
The last Christmas before April 23, I came downstairs to find Daddy passed out next to a puddle of his own vomit on the floor in front of the Christmas tree. Mama and I left him there while we opened presents. She brewed her coffee extra strong that morning. Made me some too. I don’t know what else she put in that cup, but it made me feel warm and silly. We curled up under her blanket on the couch and watched Christmas Vacation on repeat until Daddy came to. It wasn’t so fun after that.
“Hey,” Wes says, blocking the sides of my face with his hands like blinders. “Stay with me.”
I blink, pulling myself out of my head as his beautiful face comes into view.
“You did it.” He beams, and the pride in his eyes is enough to make tears form in mine. “You’re outside, fucking shit up like a little punk.”
Wes jerks his thumb in the direction of the sign, and two warm streams slide down my cheeks as I turn to look at it. Not because I’m afraid to be out here.
But because I’m so incredibly thankful to be.
“I love you,” I whisper, shifting my gaze back to the man who, just yesterday, I thought I’d never see again. “I love you so—”
Before I can finish my declaration, Wes silences me with his mouth. He blocks out the world with his hands over my ears, clutching my face as he kisses me hard. He chases the memories away with his tongue and lips and hips and smell. And I am plunged back into my