Fear rises immediately.
Big.
Cold.
Hot Mama appears beside me before it can swallow me.
“You ain’t alone,” she says.
I keep my eyes on the empty road. “I feel alone.”
“That’s different.”
“Everything is different with you people.”
“We people have lived long enough to be annoyingly wise.”
I laugh weakly.
She looks toward August. “Your boy’s fine.”
“He is.”
“You’re not.”
“No.”
“Good. Fine women lie too much.”
The fire pops. Sparks rise into the Oregon dusk. Around us, the campground settles into evening. Women wash dishes. Kids chase glow sticks. A baby cries, then quiets. Someone starts playing an old guitar near the porch. The smell of smoke and chili and pine wraps around everything.
I can breathe here.
That is the terrifying part.
I can stand under strange trees, surrounded by women with crowns and scars and guns, and breathe without listening for Jeremy’s car. Without watching August watch me for clues. Without feeling Derby’s rage building like thunder on my behalf.
I can breathe.
But breathing without Derby feels like only half alive.
Hot Mama studies me like she hears that too.
“Missing him already?” she asks.
I don’t pretend not to know who she means.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I look at her. “Good?”
“Means you didn’t run because you stopped loving him.”
The word love knocks the air out of me.
I turn toward the fire.