|
(Continued)
"Eddie,"
I say softly, leaning forward over the driver’s side door. He
doesn’t hear me. "Eddie," I say again, louder this
time. He still doesn’t hear me. "Edward," I say,
enunciating each syllable. He hates being called Edward. Still no
response. He’s just sitting on the bench in the hot sun. His
face is still covered by his hands. He hasn’t moved. Not an
inch. He probably has a migraine.
I
don’t want to get out of the car. It’s too hot to think about
moving. I don’t even want to be driving. I also don’t want to
lay on the horn and scare him to death, because Eddie’s already
shaken up enough. So I get out of the car, leaving the door open,
and go over to him.
"Eddie,"
I say again. I put one hand on his shoulder, run the other though
his hair. I expect him to draw a startled breath but he doesn’t.
I expect him to jump beneath my touch but he doesn’t. He simply
lowers his hands, folding them in his lap, and then raises his
eyes to meet mine. Eddie has beautiful eyes, bright blue, always
swarming with a sea of emotions. He has dark lashes, which make
the rest of his face look younger. His brows are delicately
arched. Eddie doesn’t say anything to me. He looks like he’s
ready to cry. No. He’s already cried his eyes dry, which would
have been fine, but Eddie isn’t a crying person.
I wrap
my arms around him as I sit down next to him, and he rests his
forehead on my shoulder. I can feel him shaking as he places his
hands on my back. He’s trying not to cry again.
"It’s
okay," I say, stroking his hair. I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know what to do. I just hold on to him and let him hold
on to me. I’ve never seen him like this, so damned vulnerable.
In a way, I hate him for it. Still, I let him hold on to me, let
him be the one to pull away, even though I want desperately to do
so. It takes a while, but Eddie finally relaxes his grip. He
can’t quite look at me once he’s broken our embrace. His blue
eyes dart everywhere. He hasn’t cried anymore, but he’s close.
"You
okay, sweetheart?" I ask. I’ve called him sweetheart ever
since the first day I met him. This time, it hits a nerve. For
both of us. Eddie gets up from the bench, turning away from me.
He’s looking at my car.
"Nice
car," he says, his voice uneven. Eddie has one of the
strangest voices I’ve ever heard, like a stoner on helium—a
little high, a little nasal, never entirely down to earth.
There’s a hint of gravel too, from where he’s smoked too many
cigarettes. I love the sound of his voice.
"I
rented it in Vegas," I say. I hate the sound of my own voice.
Always have.
"What
kind is it?" he asks. He probably already knows the answer.
Eddie wants to be distracted. So we’ll talk about the car.
"A
black one," I reply.
I
manage to get a laugh out of him, not much of one, but a laugh.
"No, seriously."
"Fine,"
I say, "a black convertible." I don’t know anything
about cars.
"It’s
a Ford Mustang," Eddie says. He proceeds to run down the
year, the horsepower, and a lot of other numbers that mean nothing
to me. He’s a fucking connoisseur.
"Fine,"
I say, "it’s a Ford Mustang." Then I run off verbatim
all the numbers he’s just told me. Eddie usually laughs when I
do this; it’s an old joke between us. He doesn’t laugh this
time. Instead he turns back to me, his eyes wide with desperation.
"You’re
not mad at me, are you, Jenna?" he asks. His voice is close
to breaking. There’s moisture in his eyes. It is very, very
important to him that I’m not mad. Right now, to Eddie, nothing
matters more.
"No,
Eddie, I’m not mad at you." And I’m not. I’m mad, yes.
But not at him.
"You
sound like you’re mad at me. You look like you’re mad,
too."
I
stand up, though I do not close the distance between us. Eddie
doesn’t want anyone close to him right now. He wants distance.
So I’ll hang back a few steps. "I just wanna know what’s
going on with you. You’re a mess."
"I
know," Eddie says, a simple statement of fact. He sniffles
and swallows hard. His eyes scan up one side of the dusty main
street and down the other. "I didn’t think burghs like this
existed anymore," he says. "I have to get outta
here." And he goes over to my car, which I have left running.
He slides behind the wheel and adjusts the seat. For a moment,
I’m certain he’s going to floor the gas and leave me. Eddie is
spontaneous. When he wants something, everything else is
irrelevant. He wants to leave. For a moment, I’m certain he’s
going to leave without me.
He
doesn’t. Instead he looks up at me impatiently, drumming his
hands on the steering wheel. "What?" he asks finally.
And he really, really doesn’t understand.
"You
don’t need to be driving right now," I say calmly, as
though that’s the answer to his question. I want to tell him a
lot more. Like, I may have ruined my entire life to help you.
Like, why can’t you at least say thank you? Like, what the hell
happened to you and why won’t you tell me anything? I may have
ruined my entire life by coming to help him. Getting here wasn’t
easy at all. Going home will probably be harder, if I have a home
to go back to. I may not. It’s a very real possibility.
"It’s
how I relax," Eddie says, oblivious to the burdens that
threaten to break me. "I drive to relax, you know that. I
relax by driving. Come on. I gotta go. I gotta get outta here.
Let’s go. I’m okay." He’s talking quickly now. He talks
quickly when he’s nervous. Right now, Eddie’s more than
nervous. He’s a wreck. His nose is bloody and there’s dried
blood in his pencil-thin mustache. A nasty cut is on his left
cheek. It’s hard to see, though, but the skin around the cut is
swollen and dark purple. He’s been in a fight. That worries me.
Eddie’s a talker, not a thug.
"Let
me drive," I insist. "You look tired, sweetheart. You
need to rest."
Eddie
sighs heavily, staring out the windshield at nothing in
particular. I watch him in silence. I wonder what’s happened to
him. He’s messed up; I’ve never seen Eddie so unstable. For a
long time, he stares down the main road of the dust bowl we’re
in, down toward the trailer park on the outskirts of town.
There’s not much to look at, but Eddie seems interested.
"Where
are we, anyway?" he asks, leaning forward on the steering
wheel. He uses the wheel like a pillow, as though he means to curl
up and go to sleep.
"Divinity,
Nevada," I say.
Eddie
sighs heavily. "I don’t even know how I got here."
(Turn
the page) |
