“I don’t know if I should be happy about that or sad,” she says, grabbing the trail mix and opening it. “Maybe sad.” She turns and walks back to the bathroom to spit it out. “That trail mix is at least a year old.”

“I have no doubt the chips are fresh,” I say. Getting up, I walk over to the bathroom and turn on the water. “I want to be gone by three if that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Olivia says, sitting on the bed with four bags of chips and two Snickers. “Why did we stop eating chips?” she asks after shoving five into her mouth.

“I mean, it’s a carb,” I say, pulling off my sweater, “and deep fried, and there is a fuck ton of sodium.”

“I don’t care,” she says, putting another handful into her mouth and opening the Snickers. “God, I forgot how much I love chocolate,” she says, taking another bite.

I shake my head and take a fast shower, letting the heat hit my neck. I won’t admit it, but I’m nervous as fuck about going back home. I said I would never go back there, and now here I am, twelve hours away from driving back into a town I never wanted to return to.

When I get out of the shower, I wrap myself the same way that Olivia did, and when I walk out, she’s under the covers and the wrappers from two chocolate bars are on the side table with a bag of chips. “I remember now why we stopped,” she groans. “I feel sick.”

“That’s because your body isn’t used to sugar or starch,” I say, laughing. Getting a shirt, I put it on with my underwear. I pick up my phone and set the alarm for two forty-five. “What are the chances that we’ll hit a Starbucks tomorrow morning?”

I slip under the cold white covers and turn off the light. “I’m going to say almost zero, but you never know.” I put my head down on the pillow.

“Thank you,” she says, and I look over at her in the dark room, “for going back home. I know that the last thing you want to do is go back there.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say, ignoring the hammering of my heart. “I’m just not sure you’re ready for it.”

“I’m ready,” she says softly, and I close my eyes, falling asleep within minutes. When the alarm goes off, I groan, reaching over and seeing that Olivia is sitting up in bed.

“Did you sleep?” I ask, blinking away the sleep.

“For an hour, I think.” Her voice is soft. “I gave up after I had a nightmare.” Ever since she was arrested, she wakes up with nightmares.

“I’m ready,” she says, tossing off her covers to show me she’s dressed in jeans and a tank top.