20.
"Your name's Tucson or that's where you're from?" the driver asks as we coast along the desert highways, endless stretches of sand spotted with tumbleweeds, dry plants in the distance, the sun blindingly hot overhead. He has the windows open, no air conditioning in the Honda that looks as though it's seen plenty of better days. My forearm is slick, a squelching sound as I lift it off the window's open ledge. Even the air is warm, blowing through my hair, long, brushing my shoulders, sweat pooling on the back of my neck. I lean my head out slightly, seeking escape from the musty interior, the blare of the radio, 80s rock, growling voices and guitar solos.
"Both," I reply, hoping he drops it. He doesn't.
"Never been," he says, twisting the dial on the radio, interference turning the singer to static. "Las Vegas, born and raised."
I think of the days I spent in the city, the neon oasis in the middle of the desert, a stretch of cacophony, of color, of casinos, of crumbling facades. The jingle of money as it slammed into the cache, accompanied by blinding lights and a whirlwind of sound, a sensory overload screaming winner! Winner! Winner! I searched the dispensers for loose change, quarters, nickels, dimes. Tokens to be exchanged for five dollars here, a dollar there. A lucky twenty placed on a game of roulette, double or nothing red, then lost. The grimace of the dealer. Better luck next time, man.
Signs advertising: Live shows! Nude girls! Showtunes! Kids eat free! My feet on the pavement, so hot it melts the rubber soles, dirt beneath my fingernails, passing liquor stores, dispensaries, strip clubs. A veritable Disneyland for adults, pick your sin, one of seven. Gluttony? Lust? Vanity? I already know mine. Greed. I want it all. Not the money, or the sex, or each night's teasing promise. I want the photo in front of the fountain, the tourist that gazes on with wonder. I want the laughter as a woman falls against her husband, head on his shoulder, wheezy from a night of dancing, letting loose, having fun. I want the stilted ecstasy of alcohol, the blurred edges, the rendering of the earth not with its sharp edges but its gentle suggestions. I want the feeling of satisfaction, walking into the hotel, the blast of air conditioning, the locked door, collapsing on scratchy sheets not quite washed, a satisfied smile, an unprecedented, unburdened joy.
I crave acceptance, not escape.
The next morning, early but already growing hot, I hail the Honda driving north, the driver reaching across the seat to open the passenger's side door from the inside. Sorry, handle's broke. Gotta fix it but I don't have the cash. Where you trying to go?
My hesitation.
"Anywhere but here."
"Well, I'm heading north."
"North. I could do that."
The radio is too loud, the signal suddenly snapping into focus, my compass pointing north, holding true. My t-shirt sticks to my back which sticks to the pleather seats which sticks to the seatbelt. I am sinking into this car. Soon I will be a part of its fabric, another piece of machinery, an axle, a gearshift, a cog or a wheel. I can sense the driver's expectant gaze on my profile. He is waiting for me to offer up some information, some idle chat, some turn of phrase. The payment for a trip north in a Honda with no air conditioning, along the roads of a country built for the automobile. There are no free rides, quite literally.
I wish to be alone in my silence, only the white noise of the road beneath tires, of wind against metal. I take the phone out of my pocket, the burner paid per minute, the plastic cheap and scuffed. There are three text messages.
1. Sammi. My now likely ex-girlfriend. Area code 502. Stopped by motel but door locked. U up?
2. Felix. My ex-landlord. Area code 213. Bro got an open spot if u want it first months rent free but u gotta fix it up a bit lmk
3. Sammi. My now likely ex-girlfriend. Area code 502. Door guy said u checked out wtf? Call me.
I snap the phone shut, lean my head against the side of the cab. It digs into my forehead, leaves a line. We enter northern California, its desert fading into national forest, so many trees it feels like a different country, a different world. The air is colder, crisp in my lungs when I inhale. I take the phone out of my pocket, warm against my thigh. I roll the window down just a few inches, just wide enough to slip the inoffensive object out the gap. I barely hear the clatter. A ritual sacrifice to the sudden and imminent disappearance of yet another John Doe.
The driver laughs, surprising me with his presence. That he is alive and feeling, thinking and watching. More than a foot on the gas pedal. More than a heartbeat driving a car. He looks at me, juts a nod with his chin.
"You running from someone?" he asks, more out of curiosity than wariness.
I don't answer. Running from someone requires an inciting incident, a destination, a purpose, a beginning, a middle and an end. I am going blindly north, searching for something that doesn't exist, something intangible and impossible to name, a sense of belonging, of welcome, of misting rain. A dream and a nightmare. A home.
x
The problem with Bella's lips is that I can't focus on anything else when they touch my own. I become something wholly other, my thoughts removed and replaced with something purer, aching, an endless want. My hands reach out of their own accord, my boots seeking leverage in the slippery barkdust as I push myself closer to her, hands fisting in her jacket, the creak of her swing's chains as they rattle against my own. Abstractly, I know we are in a public park. I know that I came here to tell her goodbye, or hello, or something in-between. I know that I had purpose before we sat down, before she began to touch me, before the rosy flush of her cheeks brushed mine, her hair long over her shoulders, eyes smoky and wanting, impossible to be denied.
I remember Esme's voice, but only barely. It is but a whisper in the back of my mind, a tickling pressure on my subconscious thoughts. A warning. I will need to leave soon and she shouldn't come with, she should stay with Esme, she needs stability, she needs a home, she needs a place to learn and grow. She needs, she needs, she needs. But what about what I need? The selfish thought (God forgive me, I know I am not devout) is stifling but true, unignorable and endless. I want to launch myself off the swing, pull her into the huddled pines, lay her back on the damp grass and hover over her, the epicenter of my balm. Her fingernails pluck my hair, scratch my scalp and the feeling trails through me, a trembling stream from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
This is even better than last night. It is visible and true and real. It cannot be questioned or second-guessed. It cannot be covered up. I write my own story on her skin with the tips of my fingers, pushing up under her shirt, the skin there softer than I could've imagined, such a stark contrast to the calluses on her fingertips, the fine lines of her bones, the swell of her belly and the curve of her hips. She mutters something against my lips, a small noise of acceptance. A bird squawks loudly overhead, a child's shriek, the ring of a bell. School is out and our moment is interrupted. She pulls back, lips swollen, cheeks red, and looks at me, a mischievous glint in her eye. I try to see the reflection of my own face in those watery pupils, the mirror of me, a picture of what I never thought could be possible, never thought was part of my timeline, her face in the middle of the road, standing there right in my path, waiting and waiting.
Her fingers weave through my own and she stands, the wet swing bouncing slightly in response. I follow her as I know I am destined to do, running toward something instead of away, toward our beginning, our middle, and our end. We sneak in through the back door, climb the stairs to her room. Esme is in the kitchen, the living room. The sounds of a television sitcom, the splatter of oil in a frying pan. Carlisle as he opens the front door, slams it shut. Their voices, muted and low. And we have the stolen moments in-between, to touch, to talk, to explore. To hover in this semi-reality, these gaps between events, before forces beyond our control try to mold us and shape us into something other. She lays on her back, the sheets rumpled around her, a bed that was once mine and is now hers and could be ours. She tucks her face under my elbow, wrapping her arm around my waist, sliding around me, through me, a lock to a key.
She reaches somewhere deep inside me, grabs hold and twists.
We reluctantly break apart for dinner, join Carlisle and Esme at the table. Their words are careful, but I catch Esme's eye several times, her searching and open expression. Beneath the table, I trail one finger over Bella's knee, the flesh untouched, bruise healed, unblemished and perfect.
"Are you ready for your shift tomorrow?" Esme asks, interrupting the moment, Bella's leg pulling tight beneath my touch, her back straight, a string tied to her spine yanked skyward.
"Will you be there?" Bella asks me. Esme frowns.
"You were getting along quite well on your own," she says.
"I know, I'm just…" Bella begins to protest, stumbling over her words.
"Edward, I've got a new route for you," Carlisle interjects. "They want you on the road tomorrow afternoon."
Bella's eyes flick to me and away. I know the movement, her next to me on the passenger's seat, precious cargo sat beside. My hands flex and I withdraw my touch, clench them in my lap. Bella looks to me again, our connection severed, her brow pursed in confusion.
"Angela will be there if you have any questions," Esme says. "Or you can always call me. I'll likely stop in once the morning rush dies down anyway." She says all of this very casually, slicing through a pork chop with a fork and knife, the action of a saw.
"That sounds… good," Bella replies hesitantly, no longer eating. "Thank you."
"I was hoping to take some time off. Before my next long haul," I finally say. Carlisle looks up, surprised.
"You've never taken time off before," he replies. "I'll need to get another driver to cover. It's very last minute."
"I'm sorry," I sigh. I am unwilling to change my mind. Carlisle and Esme make eye contact across the table. The twist of Esme's mouth. Disapproval.
"I'll see what I can do," Carlisle finally says, tucking back into his food. He is careful not to look up, to engage again in the conversation. Beneath the table, I feel Bella's warm hand on my thigh, gentle pressure. A relief. A thank you.
That night, I lay on the couch. Waiting. Wanting. It is dark, but not quite silent. Carlisle and Esme are still awake, the light in their bedroom on, a thin yellow line shining through the crack in the door, a slash on the carpet. I sigh, rolling back and forth, feeling like a stranger in my skin, uncomfortable. Torn in half. Between leaving and staying. Between good and bad. Between purity and sin. I can no longer see what is black and what is white. What is wrong and what is right. I swim in gray. In my pocket, my phone buzzes hard, one waiting message.
1. Carlisle. My savior turned father turned boss. Area code 253. We need to talk.