“It’s not weird to be smart,” Peter said, looking hurt. “Just because you have the attention span of a cricket—”
“I’d rather know a little bit about a lot of things than a lot about just one thing.”
“But you don’t,” he said. “You don’t care enough to bother with anything.”
This was true, of course. Emma knew that she’d always been on the wrong side of the invisible line that separated her from her parents, from Patrick and Annie and Nate, even from Peter. But how could she tell him that the reason she always acted so disinterested in everything was because of the worry that she herself wasn’t all that interesting?
“I got us all the way here, didn’t I?” she said. “I’ve stuck with this, anyway.”
“You wouldn’t have done it on your own, though,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t have done it without me.”
“I’m not stupid, Peter,” she said. “I can read a map too.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“And I could’ve done without the running commentary, by the way. The only reason I even called you in the first place is because I thought you were quiet.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said, looking up at her sharply. “You called me because you had nobody else to call.”
And she knew he was right.
He scowled at the fire before stooping to reorganize the careful architecture of twigs and branches, leaning away when the winds shifted and the smoke became too thick. When he stood up again, pushing his glasses up on his nose, there was a streak of ash just below his left eye. Emma watched him pace back and forth, pulling her knees up close to her chin. And for the first time, here in the middle of the woods, she stopped thinking of this—whatever this was between them—as something she’d been nice enough to put up with, and instead began to wonder why someone like Peter Finnegan would ever want to bother with someone like her.
Chapter twenty
Peter woke the next morning to find himself face to face with an enormous grasshopper, which directed a beady eye at him and rubbed its spindly legs together like some sort of cartoon villain. Pursing his lips Peter sucked in a breath and then exhaled, and the bug hopped away in a hurry.
It was still early, and the sun hadn’t yet made its way through the thick awning of pine trees above, so the woods still looked smudged with gray in the pale dawn. He pushed himself up on one elbow, taking stock of the situation: the small pile of ashes from last night’s fire, the pine needle stuck to his cheek, the sneakers he’d kicked off, which were now wet with dew. His whole left side was covered in dirt from the way he’d slept, sprawled on the hard-packed ground, and he slapped at his shirt to brush it away, without much success.
The air still smelled smoky and burnt; everything was damp and tinged with cold. Peter threw off the Roanoke sweatshirt, which he’d been using as a blanket, and got stiffly to his feet. Through the trees he could see the blue car, bright against the muted colors of the woods, its windows almost completely fogged over.
It was taking most of his energy to forget about how he’d tried to kiss Emma last night, and each time the memory rose again in his mind, it was all he could do not to go slinking off into the woods on his own, just so he’d never have to look her in the eye again. It had been mortifying and embarrassing and horrible, all the things he’d known it would be. So how, he wondered, could he have possibly thought it was a good idea?
The answer, he knew, was simple: He hadn’t thought at all. And that was the problem with this whole trip; he’d stopped thinking the moment Emma called, had let himself be carried along like an empty-headed and lovesick idiot.
Last night’s fight had ended much the same way it had started: both of them stubborn and silent and anxious to make a point of some kind. If there’d been somewhere to stomp off to, one of them undoubtedly would have, but since it was nighttime and they were in the middle of the woods—in the middle of Virginia, for that matter—there simply wasn’t anywhere to go.
Up to now Peter hadn’t minded when they bickered; it had usually felt more like banter than anything else, never fully serious, with a closeness about it that had been missing last night. This was different: There was no punch line, no great joke to the whole thing. They’d come too close to the truth about each other, and Peter could feel the loss of something in every single word they spoke, and even more in those they didn’t.
Once the fight had given way to a tension-filled silence, Peter had grabbed the bag of hot dogs from the car, then set about roasting them with his back to Emma. When they were ready, he handed her one that was blackened and burned, but no worse off than his own. She wrinkled her nose and muttered something under her breath.
“This isn’t a gourmet restaurant,” he said. “You’ll just have to live with it.”
But she only glared at him, took two bites, then chucked the rest on the ground, looking on in silence as the dog bounded over to finish it off. Peter took a seat again—careful to pick a different log, keeping his distance this time—but even so, Emma got up with a sigh. He watched her through the darkness, feeling a mounting sense of frustration with the way she just stood there, hands on her hips, as if this decision—as well as all those before it and all those still to come—was so obviously hers to make. Everything always seemed to hinge on her word, her next move, her changes of heart and ridiculous whims. She was spoiled and bullheaded and maddeningly temperamental, so why did he always go along with everything she said?
Peter had risen to his feet with a frown, unable to help feeling like they were squaring off, eyeing each other across the weakening fire. Emma glanced behind her toward where the car was parked, and Peter decided right then to take a stand. She could have it all to herself for all he cared. He refused to be stuck in such a small space with her anyway, not when the air between them was so crowded with all that had been said. His gaze drifted across the campground, searching out a spot to sleep, formulating a plan, but before he could voice it, before he could put his foot down and make a decision and finish this night on his own terms, Emma turned on her heel and stalked off toward the car on her own, slamming the door behind her so hard that it left no question about whether or not he was welcome there anyway.
Peter stood still and watched her go, thinking that he’d never even had a chance.
Now he surveyed the same hushed woods, shivering despite the rising sun. He imagined this was what a hangover felt like: a throbbing sense of regret and a certain reluctance about making it through the day ahead.