Page 41 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

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 with tension 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 deeply wrong , 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 who stayed calm when everything fell apart after they died. I’ve been the glue, the nurturer, the fixer all my life.

But right now, I can do nothing.

I know Hayes doesn’t want me to see him like this.

It’s too soon in our relationship to cross that line.

Or maybe he’s still clinging to the idea that he has to be the strong one.

But he carried me when I was a hot mess in Nashville, covered in public bathroom grime and vomit, and took care of me afterward.

No hesitation, no ego. Just tender attention. I want to do the same for him.

After ten minutes and still no sign that he hasn’t passed out on the side of the road, my worry overrides respect for boundaries. I tiptoe around the van to check on him.

If I weren’t so concerned, his big frame slumped against the van like a comic strip might make me giggle.

He leans against the bumper, back curved forward and head drooping, hands palm-up in the dirt.

His legs are sprawled out, one foot dug in the gravel, shorts bunched up around thick, pale thighs.

His shirt drapes haphazardly across his waist, sweat glistening on his chest and forehead.

The empty water bottle rests inches from his fingers.

He’s beautiful. And wrecked. And making my heart hurt.

“You poor thing.” I head back to the van and search the cabinets for crackers or anything that might help. But all I find is my stash of sugary snacks and the box of organic protein bars he likes that taste like bird food .

“Shiitake.” I snatch another bottle of water and get back to him. “We need to get you some electrolytes,” I announce gently, kneeling beside him.

He takes the bottle but doesn’t open it. “Do we have any crackers?”

“No.” I survey the empty expanse of desert and asphalt around us. No resources to sustain life or help a sick man recover within range. “We need to get to a store. Can you stand?”

“Probably.” Using the bumper for support, he pushes himself up, careful and unsteady.

I dip under his arm. I’m not strong enough to hold him up, but I want him to feel me there. That he’s not alone.

“Get back,” he says suddenly, gently nudging me behind him as he doubles over again.

I wrap an arm around him. “I’m so sorry, Hayes. I wish I could do something.”

He squeezes my arm in response, a silent acknowledgement that he appreciates the sentiment.

When the worst of it passes, he leans against me.

“You might have to drive to the store.”

“What?” I heard him but couldn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction from popping out of me.

“You drove the go-karts,” he reminds me, exhaling a frustrated sigh—not at me, I know, but at his own weakness. He hates asking me. I can feel it in his body and the tension still clinging to him.

But right now, he needs me to be brave for him .

Go-karts and vans are not the same , my mind protests, but I push the thought aside.

“You can do it.” He makes the butterfly shape with his hands and taps on his chest. His way of helping me stay calm and think and breathe. “I’ll be right beside you.”

Dang. Why does he have to be so thoughtful . . . even now? It makes me want to be the person he thinks I am. The best version of Josie Jones.

“I believe in you.”

“Yeah, well.” I swallow down my fear. “I believe in us, so that will have to do for now.”

I can do this. Right? I know the process. It’s not difficult.

The words loop in my head as we shuffle to the passenger side and load Hayes’ heavy body into the seat. Once he’s settled, I roll the window down and close the door before making my way to the driver’s side.

Driver. That’s me.

My fingers tremble on the warm metal handle, stomach churning. Maybe I’m getting sick, too. Maybe we should wait. We could lie in each other’s arms for the next twenty-four hours and ride it out. Then, Hayes can drive us to our next destination.

How long does it take to get over a bug or food poisoning or whatever he has.

But nice as that sounds, I know we can’t. He’s colorless, sweating, and too weak to hold his head up. He needs nourishment. Needs me to come through as he so often has for me.

I climb in, adjust the seat until my feet reach the pedals, and buckle my seatbelt. My fingers are slick on the key as I turn it.

Nothing happens.

It’s a sign , my panicked brain insists. A warning. The universe trying to save us both from this terrible idea.

His raspy voice tells me to do something, but I can’t move. Can’t process the words.

“Josie,” he tries again, a little stronger this time.

“Mmm?”

“Push the brake,” he says gently. “It won’t start unless you push the brake.”

Oh. Right.

I reach for his hand, needing the connection, the reassurance. He squeezes it back, and that one small touch is all it takes to dull my nerves.

“The traffic is light,” he says, then swallows hard. “Just go a speed you’re comfortable with until we find a gas station.”

With a nod, I reluctantly let go of his hand and try again. This time, the engine roars to life under me as if to say, You’ve got this .

And for the first time, I believe it.

◆◆◆

Somehow, I merged onto the highway like I haven’t taken a twelve-year hiatus from driving. It wasn’t as terrifying as my overactive brain promised it would be. Luckily, muscle memory took over. I guess once you learn how to balance gas pressure with existential dread, the process sticks.

Thanks to my high school requiring Driver’s Ed and a teacher who helped me after school, I got my license at sixteen.

I didn’t get it for freedom—I got it for Jordan.

I wanted to be ready when he needed his.

But since we couldn’t afford a car or insurance after I aged out of foster care and became his guardian, I never had a need for a license outside of an ID. Until now.

The first few miles are jerky as I adjust to the feel of the van. Hayes groans, clutching his stomach with every bounce.

“Sorry,” I squeak for the third time.

“You’re doing great.”

My slow pace earns me a few angry honks from drivers that zip past, but I stay focused on the road.

After a while, I work my way up to the speed limit and get used to the van’s quirky rhythm.

The old wooden steering wheel feels oddly comforting in my hands.

Kind of like holding history—and now, a piece of my own.

Driving the van may be even easier than the go-kart—smoother and more forgiving.

“How are you feeling?” I ask Hayes.

“Like I’ve been hit by the semi-truck that honked at you.”

“He must have thought I was hot.”

“Hmm” He opens an eye in playful judgment. “Guess he’s smarter than I thought. ”

An upcoming billboard promises a gas station in five miles. “We’re close.”

“Good.”

By the time I merge onto the exit ramp, my heart is hammering—in a good way. I’m proud of myself. I didn’t panic. I didn’t quit. I drove and did it well.

Rolling to a stop at the pump, I cut the engine. Hayes shifts to get out, and I grab his arm.

“Don’t even think about it.” I collect my purse from behind his seat. “You rest.”

He grunts but settles back with a nod.

“Any requests?”

“Just crackers and a sports drink . . . maybe two.”

“Two it is. I have my phone if you think of anything else.”

Pumping gas for the first time feels monumental. Like completing a complicated painting. Another accomplishment for the new Josie Jones.

When the tank clicks full, I wave at Hayes through the window and head inside.

My phone buzzes when I reach the entrance.

Hayes: I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this but glad I got to see you kiss your fear goodbye. You’re amazing.

I press the screen to my chest, then head toward the snack aisle. I’ll hug him later when he’s feeling better. Maybe forever .

I’m staring at the assortment of crackers when my phone chimes again. It's Jordan calling.

“What’s up?” I say, answering his call.

“Just checking in since I haven’t heard from you in a while.”