The Runaways

Chapter 29 (Part 2)

Hailey

It took us a half a flight of stairs to realize that both of our hands were far too sweaty to keep holding on to.  

Besides, continuing to walk around like we were America’s Most Wanted couple was ridiculous.

I wanted to make it very clear to him that I was perfectly capable of walking around everywhere else in the world but the bear-ridden Virginia woods without his help. So clear, that he’d ignore the fact that I’d held on to him this long because some impossibly stupid part of me wanted to. 

Over the next twenty-four hours, aside from the possibility of police zeroing in on us, things would be almost normal. He and I would go back to pre-tree house status, while Mrs. Lee fed us sugarplum drops.

Georgia showed us into her wood-paneled, fake-fire-placed, hunting lodge of a guest room, complete with a tiny bed for two. Every fabric that wasn’t flannel had flowers on it, and the air stunk of cinnamon and pine. If Caleb and I died here, our spirits would happily possess the furniture. I’d take the flowers, and he’d take the manly stuff, like the fox pelts and dear antlers on the wall.

Georgia immediately introduced us to her powder blue, flower-tiled, mini-bathroom—obviously the most important room in the whole house, and pointed out the essentials.

      “There’s soap and shampoo in the cabinets, towels on the rack, and a toothbrush to share if you don’t mind swappin’ spit.”

One of the things I’d started to admire about Georgia Jane Lee was her very innocent way of making everyone around her uncomfortable. Whether it was appearing out of total darkness with her rosy cheeks, windswept hair, and shotgun, or sending my blood pressure skyrocketing through her gingerbread rafters at the mention of swapping spit, she had a gift.

      “We don’t mind at all, Mrs. G,” Caleb said, sort of half-smiling to himself, like rehashing suggestive topics was the most hilarious thing in the world.

      “Good. I’ll have dinner and clothes downstairs for ya’ll in a little while.”

 And with that, she left Caleb and I barefoot and alone to our own devices.

Following Georgia’s rules turned out to be trickier than expected. Especially, the “don’t touch anything” –thing, mainly because fidgeting with the candles, or potpourri, or rabbit skull on the mantle would’ve made for an awesome distraction. I walked over to the cornflower-curtained windows and stared at Caleb, staring at me through the shimmery black reflection.

      “Guess, there’s no air mattress,” he said, running a mud-speckled hand through his mud-speckled hair.

      “Guess, not. You wanna bathe first?” I asked.

       “Do you?”

The idea had crossed my mind. Many times, in fact. 

I hadn’t showered in three days. Instead, I’d been rained on, shot at, and covered in trash juice, but I wanted Caleb to go first. I could put up with smelling myself for a few minutes longer if it meant getting unlimited shower time.

Standing in hot water till I felt borderline-lightheaded was next to a spiritual experience for me, so the thought of Caleb waiting outside, pounding at the door for me to hurry up, was less than appealing.

      “No, go ahead,” I said.

Caleb cocked his head to side and shot me one of those, “never-trust-an-Anderson” looks he and his brothers had boiled down to a science. But I flashed him a subtly political smile, and let him think my generosity was uncharacteristically Samaritan.