Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (android based ebook reader TXT) 📗

hope of taking both my daughters and granddaughters on all the trips I’d dreamed about over the years. We were going to be one big, happy family again.

In time, unfortunately, I realized this was all a fantasy. Not only were my irrational fears getting worse instead of better, but I doubted I’d ever convince RaeLynn and Jackie to join me on this grand vacation. Still, I held out hope for many years. Then, when I realized it wasn’t only my mind that was unwell, but also my body, a new idea hatched. I wanted this all to be a nice surprise for the four of you.

This car is intended for your trip to the Bull Sluice and Key West, but it’s also for you, Katherine. You’ll need a reliable vehicle to get back and forth from college.

I’m afraid the inheritances will be a little lopsided since you’re receiving this car on top of the money for college, but I know you need it. Of course, I expect you and Rebecka to complete the rest of the tasks to earn your inheritance, but this car is yours to keep. I don’t think RaeLynn or Rebecka will mind. So please enjoy and consider this my special gift to you.

With love,

Grandpa

CHAPTER 18BECKA

I’M SITTING ON THE BENCH ON MY FRONT PORCH, chewing on a hangnail, when K. J. pulls into the drive. Wow, I’m surprised she actually showed up at the time Mr. Sisco suggested we leave, but just the sight of her sends a rush of anger speeding through my veins. I still can’t believe she embarrassed me in front of my friends at the coffee shop like that. She honks twice even though I know she sees me sitting here. I roll my eyes, push up to my feet, and trudge toward her car, lugging my suitcase behind me. After depositing my luggage into the trunk, I plop down in the passenger seat with a sigh.

“What’s up, buttercup?” she says in a fake, cheery voice.

She wears cutoff jean shorts and a baby blue tank top, which is probably the nicest thing I’ve seen her wear yet. I don’t bother answering her question. It’s not like she really meant it or cares what’s up with me anyway. Instead, I text my mom to let her know we’re off and that I’ll check in with her later today. Time to face the thirteen hellish hours to our destination. God knows, I’m dreading every second of it.

K. J. cranes her neck forward, gawking out the windshield as she backs out of the drive. “Huh, your house is nicer than I expected.”

I glance up from my phone, trying to see our place through her eyes. It’s just a house to me: red brick exterior with gray wood shutters and your run-of-the-mill flower garden out front. It’s the third house I’ve lived in, but I suppose it is nice compared with what she’s used to. Mom told me they live in a trailer house. “Thanks,” I mutter.

My phone dings with a reply from Mom. She wants to know what kind of car Grandpa bought K. J.

I text back, telling her it’s a Honda. Nice, but an older model.

Mom was pissed when Mr. Sisco told us about the car, but for some reason, it didn’t really phase me. I told Mom that Grandpa could have left all his money to them and I wouldn’t have cared. Okay, maybe that was a lie. I would have cared, but they obviously need it more than we do.

“Just so you know,” K. J. says as we turn onto the main street, “I haven’t driven a whole lot. Mostly because I’ve never had my own car before, not because I’m bad or anything like that.”

Great. My hand automatically slides down to double-check my buckle.“But I figured you could drive some,” K. J. continues.

“Yeah, sure.”

She turns up the radio, set to some alternative station. I recognize the song by Muse even though this isn’t the kind of music I usually listen to. The first two hours of our drive are completely uneventful. We listen to the radio, avoid talking, and watch the passing scenery. I’m struck by how pretty Arkansas is outside of the city limits. If I’m being honest, it’s been a while since I actually paid attention.

When my mom was between husbands, we used to drive down to Pine Bluff in the summer to see one of her high school friends. We’d usually spend a week or two there, going to yard sales, playing putt-putt golf, and swimming in their backyard pool. Then later, after husband number two, Ricky came along, too. He would chatter for most of the drive down. That was before he was old enough to argue with everything I said, which was nice. I smile to myself, recalling the way he’d count on his fingers and shout “Moo!” every time he spotted a cow along the side of the road. What I wouldn’t give to have him here beside me instead of K. J.

When we stop for a bathroom break and snacks, she asks if I’m ready to drive. “I brought The Scorch Trials,” she says, holding the book up.

I shrug. Whatever. I’m more comfortable behind the wheel than riding shotgun. Once we’re back on the highway, I sip from my Coke and pop mini peanut butter crackers into my mouth while listening to the quiet hum of the tires. My weird mood lingers; I didn’t expect this trip to trigger so many memories. And then there’s the fact that I’m sitting next to this girl that I’m just starting to get to know, but still don’t understand at all.

A billboard featuring A & B Glass Company in bold letters appears, and I’m reminded of a game Ricky and I used to play on long drives when he got older. We’d find words starting with each letter of the alphabet on passing signs. Maybe I should play the game by myself,