Page 221 of Revv

I sit sideways in the open back doors of my matte-black van with one bare foot buried in the sand and the other hooked over the bumper, eating half a sandwich while downtown Miami glitters in the distance like it has no idea how expensive it is to exist here.

The water stretches out in front of us, blue and bright under the afternoon sun, boats cutting white lines through it while music carries down the beach from somewhere behind the palms.

It’s hot enough that the metal edge beneath my thigh is starting to burn through my shorts, but there’s a breeze coming off the water and I’m still not wearing shoes, so I refuse to complain.

Emma is sprawled across the bench inside my van like she pays rent, one leg tucked beneath her while she digs through a bag of chips and drops crumbs directly onto my thrifted rug.

I stare at her hand.

She catches me looking.

“What?”

“One more crumb and you’re eating outside.”

Her gaze drifts past me toward the beach. “Oakley, we are outside.”

“Then farther outside.”

She snorts and shoves another chip into her mouth.

My van is cleaner than Emma gives me credit for.

Dark wood covers the ceiling and most of the walls, warm little amber lights strung between the panels even though it’s broad daylight. Matte-black cabinets run beneath a butcher-block counter with a small brass sink, and the leather bench Emma is currently disrespecting sits opposite the narrow bed tucked across the back.

There’s an old cream-and-black Persian-style rug running down the middle that I found at a flea market in Ohio, too many pillows, a couple plants I’ve managed not to kill yet and enough hidden storage to hold my clothes, and every other possession I decided was worth bringing with me.

Outside, she’s all black.

Inside, she looks like a tiny witch moved into a cigar lounge.

It’s honestly kinda perfect.

Emma holds up a broken chip. “You know this rug probably survived somebody smoking inside their house for thirty years, right?”

“She’s vintage.”

“She smells like incense.”

“Exactly. Respect her.”

“You’re emotionally attached to carpeting.”

“I’m emotionally attached to very few things, okay. Let me have this.”

Emma laughs, and I steal the bag from her before she can cause any more damage.

She’s been taking advantage of the fact I’m parked close to the beach since I got here, which I guess is fair. And I’ve been taking advantage of the fact she’s the only person in Miami I know well enough to call when I need to shower somewhere with actual water pressure.

Family is about balance.

“So,” she says, reaching across me to steal the bag back, “are we going to talk about how you’ve been here almost three weeks and haven’t made a single attempt to leave?”

I slowly turn my head toward her.

“Why would we ruin lunch like that?”

“Because you’re Oakley.”