Page 32 of Shane

“That’s what credit cards are for.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort. I told you we didn't have to coordinate our flights together if it would be a whole thing.”

“Now, does that make any sense? It’s a group project. We need to worktogether.” He stresses thegsound in together.

“Yes, but I’ve already identified the part that you need to work on by yourself, catch up king,” I mock.

“By myself? Now, where’s the fun in that?”

“There’s nothing fun about any of this. Project-based learning is not my thing. I hated it in high school, and I damn sure didn’t expect to do it here.”

“You rather work alone?”

“Always.”

“You think you work better alone?”

“In all things.”

“Why?”

“I just don't have a lot of patience for people. They’re always disappointing,” I explain, thinking about my parents in particular.

“Well,” he turns his head to look at me as he pulls onto the highway. “There are definitely some things that are better with a buddy.”

I release a small chuckle. “You never stop, do you?”

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That million-dollar smile I love to see.”

I scoff at the compliment, but a part of me can tell that there’s something genuine about it, like he means it and it’s not some tired “line” he uses to get in a girl’s panties.

At least, I hope it isn’t.

In the thirty minutes we spend driving to Reid International Airport, I learn a lot about Shane since he does most of the talking. He’s an only child who grew up spending most of his free time playing sports. He grew up in a working-class neighborhood in Pineboro and is one of the few kids on his block who ended up attending college. He’s still very close to some of those friends, and they plan to go to an annual homecoming party together, which he seems excited about.

He’s very close to his mother, who was a teen mom and married his father young. Sadly, she’s been a widower since Shane was ten years old. He didn’t talk much about his father, but we did spend some time listening to a few songs on the radio that he said reminded him of him. I recognize the Whitney Houston one as one of my mom’s favorites too.

When we arrive at airport parking, things happen fast. We park in a space that Shane has already reserved online. We take a shuttle to the departing flight area and then stand in line for check-in because I have a large bag to check-in.

“What’s in that thing?” he asks about my suitcase. “It weighs a ton.”

“Laundry.”

“You’re bringing home a suitcase full of laundry for your mother to wash?”

“I’m going to wash it myself.”

“What’s up with the washers in your building here?”

“They’re in this separate area of the complex. I’m not really comfortable going there.”

“Why?” His face hardens. “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing like that. It just gives me the ick.”