Page 66 of The Long Way Home
It works. It’s easy. Familiar. Like we’re suspended in this bubble before the real world crashes in.
I reach for a flashcard when I hear it—the scuff of shoes against carpet, slow and unmistakable.
I glance up.
Rhett drops into the seat across from me without saying a word.
He places a wrapped sandwich and a blue Gatorade down onto my table as he’s done a hundred times before. No announcement. No “Hey, I brought you something.” Just that quiet, effortless way Rhett always had of knowing what I needed before I did. It’s annoying.
I blink at the food. My brain lags behind for a second, then another second, before it remembers how to function.
“Are you an actual saint,” I ask, peeling back the edge of the sandwich wrapper, “or are you just trying to keep me from dying on school property?”
He leans back, hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, the Georgia crest cracked and peeling.
He grins. “Little of both. I saw the state you were in yesterday and figured I’d check in.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
He raises a brow, gesturing to the chaos of highlighters and flashcards in front of me. “Color-coded again. That’s how I know you’re not fine.”
I smirk despite myself and peel open the sandwich, savoring the smell as my stomach twists in gratitude. “I’ll take the pity food anyway.”
“You’re welcome.” He pops the Gatorade cap and nudges it a few inches closer. With his arms folded on the table, he watches me with that easy patience of his.
I chew, then speak around the bite. “Wait—aren’t you done? Don’t you and Josh graduate next week?” I try for casual, but I’ve been counting down the days. I’m not ready for them to graduate. Not that I’d admit it out loud.
He shrugs. “Yeah. I had my last final this morning. If you can even call it that. Professor Whitman gave a take-home and said she’d already entered our grades.”
I groan. “God, I hate you.”
He laughs. It’s low and warm, and it wraps around me. “You love me.”
I roll my eyes and take another bite, cheeks warming just a little. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not cocky. It’s senior spring. I’m relaxed. You should try it sometime.”
“Biopsych won’t let me.” I gesture to the mountain of notes sitting between us. “This class is going to murder me. I’ve read the words ‘limbic system’ so many times it doesn’t even sound real anymore.”
He taps the edge of a flashcard. “That’s the one with emotions, right? Anger, fear, regret…”
“Jealousy.”
He smirks. “Sounds like you have it memorized.”
I snort and lean back in my chair. The sandwich wrapper crinkles in my hand, and for a second, I breathe. My shoulders sink a little. It feels good to laugh, even just a little.
Rhett glances down at the notes, then back at me. “You’ve been at this how long?”
I glance at the laptop clock. “Uh… I got here around ten, so—?”
His brows lift. “Almost nine pm.”
“I know that.”
“Jesus, Sunny.”
The way he says my nickname makes my chest go tight in that annoying, unexplainable way it sometimes does. He says it as if the name belongs to me.
