He’s off a minute or two before Deanne. Punches out, changes back into his long-sleeved shirt, goes to the bathroom. By the time he’s done, she’s ready to go.
They don’t say much as they walk to the parking lot. It’s a couple of degrees warmer than the night before, and there’s a light mist hanging in the air. Just damp enough to make things feel miserable, to slick the pavement. Jessup is cold with just the hoodie, wishes he had his jacket. Did Earl burn it?
Deanne unlocks her car. It’s a small SUV, a Honda CRV that is about four years old, a hand-me-down from her mother, and she keeps it surprisingly neat for a teenager. When Jessup rides in Wyatt’s truck, he always jokes that you’d need a shovel to clean out the cab properly. Plus, Wyatt’s truck always smells like dirty socks. Sometimes Jessup thinks Kaylee is a saint for putting up with him. Sometimes Jessup wonders why Wyatt is his best friend, if Wyatt really is as close as a brother.
“Do you want me to just drive you home?” she says, starting up the car.
The words hurt. He tries not to show it. “Oh. Okay. I guess.”
But she doesn’t put the car in drive. Just sits there, windshield wipers making a lazy, intermittent circuit. The radio is on. Pop music. Something he doesn’t recognize. He shuts it off.
“Deanne?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was kind of bitchy.”
“It’s okay.”
“No. I’m . . . I’m just scared.”
“Yeah,” he says.
Her phone dings with a text. She smiles wryly. “Brooke is at the State Street Diner with Stanley. Again. Said she’s got a big booth.”
The phone dings again. The smile disappears.
“What?”
“She wants to know if you’re coming.”
“Oh.” He’s glad she doesn’t read him the text verbatim. Pretty sure it’s not an innocent question, that Brooke hopes the answer is no.
A car pulls into the spot next to them. An older couple, midforties, gets out. They are talking seriously about something, neither one of them seeming to notice Jessup and Deanne sitting in the CRV. The windshield wipers sweep back and forth. The thin film of moisture slowly settles on the glass, waiting for the next heartbeat of the wipers.
Deanne thumbs her phone. “I’m saying we’re not going to make it.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t really want to go to a diner with Brooke and Megan and their boyfriends,” she says with a laugh. “I mean, not really.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
“I don’t really want to take you home, either. Want to go somewhere?”
He reaches for her hand. She slides her fingers between his.