Page 68 of Jensen

I close my eyes, leaning my head against the door. Without meaning to, I sleep soundly until the sun cracks through the godawful paisley curtains.

My neck cracks as I push myself upright. Della is still asleep, a little lump under the covers. I stand, shaking my leg to get the cramp from my foot. She stirs, sitting up, and my lower stomach jerks.

She’s beautiful, hair messy around her face. It’s easy to see why Leland wanted her despite her lowly beginnings. I know because I want her too, despite everything. I nudge the edge of the bed.

“Get up,” I say. “We need to hit the road.”

She grumbles, pushing off the sheets. She’s in a t-shirt and panties, no bra. Her nipples are hard beneath her shirt. I look away, going to pull the chair from the door. By the time I’m done, she’s got her clothes back on.

I leave the key on the pillow, and we get back into the rental truck. She’s blinking in the harsh sun coming down the road, cutting between the mountains. It rained, and steam rises from the cement, the air thicker than cream.

“Let’s get some food,” I say. “Then, we’ll get to the house Jack has for us.”

“Where’s that at?”

“Red River Gorge.”

“Not too far, right?” she sighs.

“Not far. Better than being in that motel room with Clockface Jesus breathing down my neck,” I murmur.

She laughs.

“What?” I say.

She shakes her head. “You’re just…a mess of flavors I wasn’t expecting.”

“That a bad thing?”

There’s a flash of the Della I met in Montana as she smiles, turning to look out the window. “No, I like it,” she murmurs. “You’re different. It’s good.”

I clear my throat. “I’m not angry with you,” I say finally.

She doesn’t turn to meet my eyes when I glance over, but I see her nose twitch as she sniffs. “I know,” she says. “But if you were, I’d understand. You feel whatever you need to feel. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

I’m lighter for hearing that, but I’m not evolved enough to do more than clear my throat and let the subject drop. Usually, I’m good at holding a grudge, but I can’t be angry with her any longer.

She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s just trying to be a good mother, only twenty-three and already overburdened.

It’s not fair—not for her, not for my mother, not for me, or for her boy.

I force my thoughts out of the past. Now that it’s light, I’m soaking in the sight of the mountains, the green, brushy hills that boast foliage so thick, there are places where the sun never shines. We make good time on the state route, but we’re choked up by all the little towns teetering over the roads. Most of them are empty, paint peeling on gas stations with flickering signs. Then, we’re back in the open, and it’s the most beautiful place in the world.

We stop and get breakfast to-go at a tiny diner on the side of the road. Everything is exactly how I left it. The mountains never change.

The house is thirty minutes through the winding roads of the Daniel Boone National Forest. I know these hills, but it’s still a shock navigating the hairpin turns and places where the road is washed out. It’s about noon when we finally pull off and travel a half mile up a gravel drive. At the end sits a small, whitewashed house with a porch off the front. There’s a rusted out car covered in vines by the mailbox. I park next to it and cut the engine.

“This is it,” I say.

She cranes her neck, soaking it all in. I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like her lip trembles.

This is home to her, as it was to me.

I get out, grabbing our things, and step onto the porch. The wood groans beneath my boots. Jack said the door was unlocked. I test it, and it swings in, revealing a tiny lower level that looks almost like the trailer I grew up in.

My chest is tight. Della walks past me, looking around.

“This looks like the trailer I grew up in,” she says.