Page 130 of Trigger Happy

“Their skin…” I shiver. “And that people who peel hard-boiled eggs on planes are closeted serial killers.”

His eyes bulge. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I forgot about the time we all went to Tulum and Walker brought a ziplock of hard-boiled eggs on the flight. He peeled three of them in the middle seat. I almost threw up in the barf bag.”

I’m not going to say it. I am not going to say “I told you so.”

“And now that I think about it, when we were kids, he had a weird obsession with shearing sheep. Shit. There were so many signs.” He pales. “What kind of person doesn’t notice their own brother was capable of this? I could’ve—”

“No,” I cut off that useless thought and press my hands to his jaw. “There’s nothing you could’ve done to save those girls. You didn’t know, and it’s not your fault.”

He cups his hands over mine, and I can see the I needed to hear that reflected in his eyes. “Can we…” He swallows. “Can we talk about something else? I can’t—”

“I get it,” I whisper. It’s too heavy. He needs light. “I’ll happily change the subject. We need to talk about that mustache, Montoya.”

There it is, that little smile.

“Only if we can talk about how you’re driving a truck,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing my ear.

“It goes great with your mustache, doesn’t it?” I’m shaving that face caterpillar the second he’s in a better headspace.

His hand drifts to the small of my back, settling in the curve. “It’s really sexy.”

“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so,’ but do you remember when I said my legs would look great on a runway or an F-150?”

A chuckle scratches through his throat. I want to hear it forever. “You and Ma. I swear you’re the same person. Now, c’mon, let’s go ruin enchilada night.”

I hold up a finger to his lips. “One, ew. Two, I have much better style than your mom, and feel free to tell her I said that. I love a good glow-up.”

He pulls me against the shape of him, and somehow, among all the jagged lies, we still fit together. “I love you.”

65Lawton

Finding out Walker was a serial killer puts a giant, monster crater in my chest. Telling my parents went about as well as dropping a nuclear bomb on their life.

Knives were thrown. Enchiladas were ruined.

None of us are exactly thriving over here. I’m not even going to try to pretend I’m okay. On a good day I shower, but most mornings, I just get up to pee and then go right back to bed. At least I haven’t touched the limoncello.

Sabrina’s been a goddess. She bought me custom blackout curtains since I’ve become allergic to vitamin D, and she brings me a homemade pumpkin spice latte every morning in one of those reusable tumblers, so I don’t spill in bed. She doesn’t try to fix me or tell me piss-offs like fresh air helps.

Do we still have a lot to unpack? Yeah. What couple doesn’t? But I’d rather figure things out with her than be with anyone else. We have something special, and it’s worth wading through all the shit. And I finally found a therapist who isn’t related to Ted Bundy, so I call that progress.

Through it all, Sabrina stays, even when I can’t get out of bed until four in the afternoon, she’s there. And I need her to know how much it means to me.

So, I drag my ass out of bed, shave the ’stache, and book us a flight back to Benson.

“Okay,” she says, hugging herself in the chilly evening air. It’s almost Christmas. “I’m trying to be supportive because I know you’re going through it right now, but can you at least tell me what’s going on? I’m wondering if you’re going through a belated quarter-life crisis, and about to buy a used motorcycle off Facebook Marketplace, which I fully support if you are, but I’d rather know in advance so I can buy a tailored leather jacket.”

“Nah, I’ve already got the Ducati I want picked out for my crisis,” I say, leading her down the side streets. “But there is something I want to show you.”

THE TOWN’S SWAPPED pumpkin everything for a full-blown Christmas explosion, from garland choking every lamppost to wreaths on taxidermy deer heads. I’m not feeling all that festive, but Sabrina squeals oh, how cute! every time we pass a beer-bellied old man in a Santa suit he probably got off Amazon, so I keep my mouth shut and let her have this.

She wants normal? She gets normal.

I turn right on W Pearl Avenue. “I was talking to Gwen—”