Page 8 of Sunday's Best

“Sorry for…” Lifting the coffee pot in one hand and a mug in the other, I turn to face him right as his gaze flits to the ceiling. Was he—couldn’t be—but was he just looking at my ass? I give my head a little shake. “Um, sorry for waking you up.”

Holden’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, black pajama pants slung dangerously low on his hips. His right cheek’s mottled pink from being smushed against his pillow. With a yawn, he reaches his arms overhead, pulling the skin against his ribcage and pecs taut. Relaxing his arms back down, he rakes a hand through his wavy, tousled hair and exhales loudly. That same bubbly, flippy sensation I felt watching him at the party comes back with a vengeance, and I choose to ignore it. I’m clearly overtired.

“You didn’t. I’m always up this early.” He reaches out to take the mug from me, sliding his rough fingers against mine as he does. Suddenly, I’m imagining those hands elsewhere. Everywhere. There’s nothing inherently wrong about noticing my boyfriend’s brother is conventionally attractive, but the heat blooming between my legs is bad, bad, bad. “Not all of us require as much beauty sleep as you do… Speaking of which, rough night?”

I smooth a hand over my frizzy hair, then dig my fingernail into the inner corners of my eyes to check for sleep gunk. He looks like he could be in an ad for men’s sleepwear. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, but I’d wager I’m more goblin than Victoria’s Secret angel.

“A lot of egg salad based nightmares,” I reply.

“Don’t tell me about your sex dreams, Sunday,” he replies dryly, eyes trained on me, making me flushed. His first sip of coffee is followed quickly by a wince when it’s too hot. “Shit, this is hot.”

“You’ve been spending too much time on Earth, Satan. No way this compares to the flames you’re used to.”

In a flash, I catch a subtle crack in his stoic expression. And whether or not it’s inappropriate to be studying Holden Kearney’s facial expressions the way I am, I can’t help myself, so I notice it. As fast as the fractures appear, something fortifies in his eyes, bringing with it the darkness of a stormy sea.

“I’ve been in Hell every day of this trip,” he says.

Because you insisted on tagging along and ruining the last fun summer I’ll have with my brother, my mind finishes for him.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re an asshole first thing in the morning?” I snap.

“Yeah, you. Every day for the past week.”

A breathy, half-hearted laugh falls from my lips, and he tilts his head toward the bed where Logan hasn’t moved a muscle, which means he’s either sound asleep or I inadvertently committed murder with that pillow. “Careful or you’ll wake sleeping beauty.”

“As if. It would take a fire alarm to wake him up.”

Holden hums an agreement. With his mug cradled in his large, spread hand, he leans forward so his arms rest on his thighs.

Silence creeps in. I busy myself with wiping the two square feet of counter space in this tiny trailer, feeling the weight of his stare with every movement.

Eventually, he clears his throat. “What’s your plan for this morning?”

“I’m assuming you’ll want to hit the road as soon as Logan’s up, so I’m going to have a quick shower and get ready.” I toss back the rest of my coffee and plunk the mug down in the tiny sink.

Most travel mornings I’m lucky to have time to shower before Holden’s herding me and Logan out to the truck, threatening to drive away with us still in the trailer. The slow start today is a nice change. Maybe I should make a habit of getting out of bed early.

Holden’s jaw ticks. “What time do you need to be at the bus station?”

“Sorry to continue ruining your summer, but I decided against the bus for the time being.”

With a nod, he looks toward the bed. “And him?”

I’m self-aware enough to know any self-respecting woman would’ve ended things long before this. But at one point, I really did love him. I loved him enough to accept that he wasn’t flawless, enough to believe he was genuinely trying his best. I told myself expecting more was setting the bar too high for any man—fictional ones aside—to achieve, and that gave way to a complacency and apathy I’ve grown a little too comfortable living with.

So it’s not hard to keep up the charade for a while longer—creating the illusion of a happy couple in public, acting like roommates when we’re alone, and living in willful ignorance about his cheating. I’ve already been doing it for a full year.

“Logan and I are all good.”

“Right. Figured as much.” A grumble underscores every word. “If you’re going to shower, make it quick. And wake him up. I want to be on the road in half an hour.”

A while later, I slide into a faded red diner booth, back pockets of my jeans catching on the duct tape that’s holding together the ripped vinyl upholstery. Logan’s not far behind me, stretching out and wrapping an arm around my shoulders to pull me close.

We’re somewhere on the side of the highway, in a diner where ninety percent of the patrons are wearing plaid and the scent of engine grease is nearly as prominent as fryer grease.

“This place has the best milkshakes, babe.” With his free hand, Logan picks up one of the laminated single-page menus stacked on the glossy table. I don’t know why. He’s ordered the same meal at every truck stop diner we’ve sat in over the last week—and there have been many. “Holden and I stop here every summer. It’s tradition now.”

That explains why Holden didn’t argue when Logan suggested stopping less than two hours into our ten-hour drive, even though we left later than Holden planned to this morning.