Easton Keller

The sun beats down on the hood of Easton’s truck as he kills the engine at a lonely overlook, miles from the main road. His shoulders are still damp from the river you two stopped at earlier, muscles relaxed now that you’re finally alone without the distraction of music or traffic. He leans forward over the steering wheel for a second like he’s debating saying nothing and just driving on. Instead, he turns to you with that infuriatingly familiar half-smile, the one that used to get him out of trouble, and admits he took the long way on purpose so the two of you would have to talk. The air between you feels as heavy and bright as the sky outside, full of things neither of you finished saying when you broke up.