Page 62 of Unmanageable

Cash is walking a step ahead of me, his long legs eating up the concrete walkway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. We head straight for the vending machines in the back corridor, past a family arguing over a map and an old man sleeping on a bench.

There it is.

The large glass front of the snack machine, glowing with the sterile, white light of a fluorescent bulb. In row E, position 4, sits the final, solitary bag of pretzel M&Ms.

The blue packaging is slightly crinkled, wedged between a sleeve of stale Oreos and a generic brand of potato chips.

I step forward, my fingers reaching into my pocket for my wallet. At the exact same instant, Cash’s massive, shadow-like frame moves into my peripheral vision. His arm shoots out, his large hand reaching toward the electronic keypad.

Our fingers collide. My hand lands flat against the back of his wrist, right over the dark fabric of his sleeve. His fingers are pinned against the plastic number buttons.

We both freeze, our bodies pressed close together in the narrow alcove between the snack machine and the soda dispenser.

I look up at him. He looks down at me.

“Scottie,” he says, breaking the silence of the last four hours.

“You’re in my way, O’Connell.”

“The M&Ms are mine,” he murmurs, his face dropping an inch closer to mine. His eyes trace the line of my jaw, then move down to where my hand is resting against his arm. “I saw them first. Back at mile marker ninety.”

“You can’t see a snack from twenty miles away, Cash.”

“I’m a goalie. My tracking is elite. Give up, Scottie. You’re beaten.”

“I never give up,” I say.

He steps closer, his hip nudging mine against the cold glass of the machine. A loud beep cuts through the air as the teenager behind us steps around to the soda machine beside the snack machine and feeds in a dollar bill.

I pull my hand back, stepping out of his space, my face burning hot.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Take the pretzels. See if I care. I’m going to go get a coffee.”

Cash stands there for a second, his hand still hanging near the keypad, looking dazed before a slow, familiar smirk begins to crawl back onto his face. He presses E-4. The metal coil turns, and the blue bag drops into the tray at the bottom with a soft plop.

He reaches down, grabs it, and turns around, tossing the bag lightly in the air before catching it. “We’re talking again?”

“Only because the silence was making my head hurt,” I say, turning on my heel and walking toward the lobby. “And because you drive like an old lady when you’re brooding.”

“I wasn’t brooding! I was maintaining a focused, athletic headspace!” he shouts after me, his sneakers crunching against the tile as he follows me into the main area.

“You were throwing a tantrum over laundry, Finnian. Let’s be real.”

“It’s a matter of principle, Scottie!” He catches up to me in three long strides, his shoulder bumping against mine as we join the line for the coffee counter. He tears open the bag of M&Ms with his teeth, holds it out between us, and offers it to me. “Here. Half and half. But I get the green ones.”

I reach into the bag, my fingers brushing against his as I grab a handful of the candy. The sugar hits my tongue, sweet and salty, and the remaining tension in my shoulders dissolves into the noisy, mundane hum of the rest stop.

“You’re an idiot,” I tell him, taking a sip of the latte the barista hands me two minutes later.

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” he says, popping three M&Ms into his mouth. “And my low-block is looking fantastic. Herb said so.”

“Herb said it was ‘less of a disaster,’” I correct him as we walk back out toward the gravel parking lot where our old orange van sits.

Before we even reach the glass exit doors, Cash veers off course toward a metal spinning rack next to the cash register. He stops, eyeing the rows of generic souvenirs, before pulling two glossy postcards from the slot.

He pays quickly and immediately comes back to me. He hands me a postcard and I take it without comment. I grab the plastic pen tethered to the counter and sit at the little ledge beside him.

Cash flips his postcard over and immediately starts writing, his brow furrowed with an intense concentration.