My lips twitch at this description, because it’s exactly how I remember him. And this image—the one I carried with me the entire time I was away—is almost impossible to reconcile with this new one. But I don’t want to embarrass him further, so I say, “Is this your car?”
He nods and flicks the windshield wipers to a higher speed. “I bought it last month. It’s a piece of shit, but it gets me around.”
I study the interior, taking in the scratched dash and the faded, threadbare fabric on the seats. This car is probably older than both of us. “You bought it? Not your . . .”
The word parents sticks on my tongue. As awkward as it feels to be around Ethan, it would be even more awkward to mention his parents, the same people who decided to slap me with a criminal-negligence-causing-death charge barely a week after the accident. They withdrew the charge before my court date—for reasons never explained to me—but still, I’d rather not open that Pandora’s box right now.
“I bought it,” he confirms as he brakes at a stop sign. “I saved almost every penny I made for the past two summers to cover the costs. You know the Douglas farm in Covington, that little town out in the middle of nowhere about forty minutes south of here?”
I nod. It’s on the way to the beach my family used to go to every summer. Tobias always loved to see the cows grazing in the fields.
“I started working there the summer before last, after . . .” He trails off, and it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the car. Aubrey. There’s no room for her here, not yet. Ethan tightens his grip on the steering wheel and tries again. “Anyway, I needed to get out of the house, get my mind on something else, and Hunter mentioned his uncle was looking for some extra help on his dairy farm for a couple of weeks. He’s worked there every summer since he was about twelve, so—”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand to stop him, pinching the bridge of my nose with the other hand. I feel like I’m missing several huge gaps of information here. “Hunter Finley? The guy you were hanging out with in the parking lot that day? His uncle owns the Douglas dairy farm?”
“Yeah,” Ethan says, like this is common knowledge. “He works there in the summers and he got me a job there too. We do stuff like repair fences and haul feed for the livestock. It’s a lot harder than it sounds, but I love it. The first summer I only did two weeks, but this year I worked there from the middle of June to the end of August. And all I have to show for it is this hunk of junk.” He pats the dashboard, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that tells me he doesn’t regret it one bit.
My mind struggles to compute everything he just told me. A year and a half ago, if I were to picture Ethan with a job, it would’ve been something involving a computer and lots of time indoors. Fresh air and cows never would’ve crossed my mind. At least this explains the wide shoulders, lean muscles, and bronzed skin.
“How did you meet Hunter?” I ask.
“He came up to me one day at Ace Burger while I was waiting for my order and told me he’d seen me play guitar at school.” He smiles faintly, like this memory amuses him. “We started talking about music and stuff and he asked me if I wanted to jam with him and his band sometime. At first I thought he felt sorry for me because everyone felt sorry for me that summer, but it wasn’t that. He just thought I was talented.”
“You are,” I say before I can stop myself. It’s the truth.
Ethan turns onto my street and pulls up to the curb in front of my house. My parents aren’t home yet, having recently decided I was mentally capable to be alone in the house for the hour or so between my arrival and theirs.
“So did you?” I ask, running a finger over the frayed strap on my backpack.
“Did I what?”
“Jam with Hunter’s band?”
“I did.” He leans back against the seat, raking a hand through his dark hair. Now that he’s let the buzz cut grow out, his hair is almost as curly as Aubrey’s, but not quite. His curls are looser, more like unruly waves. “And last May, when their lead guitar player quit to join another band, guess who stepped in?”
I blink at him a few times. He can’t be serious. “You?”
He smiles at me the same way he used to do whenever he kicked my ass at Mortal Combat—slow and mischievous and quietly proud. “There’s that horrified expression again. We practice on Saturday and Sunday afternoons at Hunter’s house. Come by and see for yourself if you don’t believe me. Sixty-three Cambridge Drive.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed. The car, the farm, the hair, the band . . . all these things together are too much. “You’ve really changed, Ethan.”
His smile falters, even though I didn’t mean it as an insult. Quite the opposite. From what I’ve seen so far, his changes are all good ones. “So have you,” he says, and going by the way he looks away after he says it, he probably does mean it as an insult. None of my changes are positive.
Shame washes over me. What the hell am I doing, chatting with Ethan like nothing ever happened? I try to imagine what Aubrey would want me to do right now. What she would do, if she were the one who’d done some horrible, life-altering thing to Ethan. She’d apologize, of course, and do everything in her power to make it right again, even if there was no easy fix. She’d make sure he was okay and be there for him if he wasn’t. She’d look out for him the same way she always did and expect me to do the same in her absence.
“Ethan,” I start, but before I can say anything more, my father’s truck pulls into the driveway in front of us.
Shit. He’s home early. And here I am, right next to the boy whose space I’m supposed to be respecting. I consider ducking, but it’s too late. He’s spotted us.
“I haven’t seen your dad in ages,” Ethan says as my father gets out and walks toward us, his forehead scrunched in confusion. “He looks . . . tired.”
“He’s been extra busy with all the rain we’ve been having,” I say, not wanting to get into my role in Dad’s weariness. “You know, leaky roofs and everything.”
Ethan doesn’t respond because my dad is now standing beside the driver’s side window, peering in at us and frowning like he caught us smoking crack or something. Ethan rolls down the window. “Hi, Mr. Shepard.”
Dad studies him for a moment and then his gaze shifts to me. I give him a small, hopefully reassuring smile, which apparently satisfies him, because he goes back to eyeing Ethan. A year and a half ago, he would have grinned affably. He would’ve invited Ethan inside and offered him a snack and teased him about the girls at school. But my father’s transformation is almost as bleak as mine.
“Come on inside, Dara,” he tells me, then turns and walks away without saying anything else. Ethan and I watch through the rain-smeared windshield as he steps up to the house and disappears inside.
“Sorry.” I rub my cheek, which feels warm and prickly like a sunburn. “I should go in.”
I reach for the door handle, but Ethan touches my arm, stopping me. Our eyes meet and for a moment—a tiny, flickering moment—he’s the old Ethan again, young and sweet and vulnerable. It hits me then, how much I’ve missed him.