Where We Used to Roam Jenn Bishop (red white royal blue TXT) 📖

“Everything out here’s a first for Emma, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got to trek all over the place.”

Delia lets that one fly and focuses on me. “What do you think, Em?”

I can’t tell her what I really think: that I don’t deserve this. A vacation inside of a vacation, but without the rest of my family. It doesn’t feel fair, and yet of course I want to go. To see a real live buffalo up close—well, not as close as those Swedish tourists. But to see them just roaming about, like how it used to be for them, when it was just bison and Native Americans living out here, centuries ago.

“That sounds really nice,” I say, which is the truth too. “Would Chris come?”

“He’s got some longer off stretches later this summer, so hopefully. We’ll have to look into lodging and all of that when we’re back in town. Gets pretty busy with all the kids out of school, but I bet we can swing it.”

“Oh, if it’s really hard, then don’t worry about it.”

Delia bats away my reply. “We’re going. It’s settled.”

Late that night I wake up to rain drumming on the roof of the tent, slow and steady. Sadie and I put the rain fly on earlier, but I reach my hands out along the edges of the tent, nervous that all this time, water’s been seeping in. Maybe it’s my O’Malleyness, expecting the worst since it’s a camping trip. But it’s dry at the edges.

Even though it’s dark, I can make out the lump next to me. Sadie’s nose makes a soft whistling sound every now and then.

I don’t know why I thought sharing a tent would help me connect with her. Or why I even want to, anyway, except to make sure I’m not disappointing my mom. She texted the other day, asking how Sadie is, and I said she’s nice because, well, what else could I say? I already reminded her that Sadie is two years older than me. Sure, we’re closer in age than me and Austin, but Sadie’s not my sister, and she’s not going to pretend for a few months either.

Not that I want a sister. Not that anyone could ever come close to Austin.

I’m not sure Mom and Dad thought things out too far when they took Delia up on her offer anyway. Having me out here let them check a zillion things off their list all at once. I get it, I do. But that doesn’t make it easier for me, exactly. Just easier for them.

Maybe I didn’t think it through either when I said yes. What exactly am I going to do here for an entire two months? Sure, I told Kennedy and Lucy I was going to be an artist, but how does that work? All my stuff is at home. All I have here is my sketchbook and, okay, five postcards. Also, even if I wanted to, I can’t make shadow boxes all day long, every day. My fingers would fall off.

Or get glued together.

Or both.

It’s like I’m starting from scratch in every way.

CHAPTER TWENTY

By the time we return to town late Monday night, I’m starting to think camping’s not so bad after all. And not just because I managed to survive three days of it.

I couldn’t admit it in front of Sadie, but it turns out it actually is nice to leave your smartphone behind. To be fair, aside from the occasional text from Lucy, I was only getting texts from Mom and Dad, which is pretty pathetic if I spend too long thinking about it. But by leaving my phone behind, I wasn’t thinking about that. Instead I was noticing the way the light caught the dewdrops suspended in a spider’s web. The soft snapping of a twig as we hiked a trail. The warmth of the sun on my shoulder when we finally reached a clearing.

I knew when we got back into town, I’d have to start figuring it out: what I was going to do with the next two months in Wyoming. But for two days I didn’t have to focus on that. I just got to breathe.

Tuesday morning, I’m at the kitchen table eating a bowl of granola with almond milk when the doorbell rings. Delia’s still in her sweats from her morning yoga class. She invited me to tag along, but given that in gym class I once knocked over Jesse Polito doing tree pose, I politely declined. Sure, I need to find some way to fill up this summer, but yoga is not it.

Delia gets up to answer the door.

“Emma?” she yells from the living room. “It’s for you.”

For… me?

But nobody here even knows me. Still, I clink my spoon in my cereal bowl and pad into the living room.

Sitting on the sofa is Tyler from the library. He’s wearing the same white pants as when I met him—the kind I for sure would stain in less than five minutes—with a plaid purple button-down shirt.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly self-conscious about being in my pajamas, even though there’s hardly anything to cover up. Becca might have gotten real boobs last summer, but I’ve still got the chest of an eight-year-old.

“Finally, you’re back! I came by yesterday, but you weren’t here.”

“We went camping. Wait—how do you know where I live?”

“Well, you’re staying with Sadie. And I had Mrs. Sadowski for fifth grade.”

“Oh,” I say. How small is this town, exactly?

“Well, I’ll let you two be. Holler if you need anything, Em.” Delia heads back into the kitchen.

“You got any plans today?” I catch it there again, that little bit of lilt to his voice that says he’s from Wyoming.

I shake my head.

“Want to hang out?”

“Sure,” I say. “No offense, but what is there to do around here besides the library?”

“Ouch.” Tyler rubs at a spot on his chest like I’ve just