24.
The air smells of campfire and burns just as hot. Smoky, hazy, like wading through thick fog. In the distance, tens of miles away, there is a brushfire that permeates the landscape, blowing whichever way the wind takes it, coating vehicles, homes, trees, shrubs, roads in ash and dust. I am outside of a gas station wearing the same clothes I have worn all week, the familiar pit in my stomach. The gnawing void of hunger. Inside the little shop, there are rows upon rows of packaged goods, air conditioning, clean breaths, a sleepy teenager at the counter only a few years younger than myself. From outside, near the broken payphone, I watch as his head falls then rises then falls again. It is dusk dissolving into night, the last moments before the sun leaks over the horizon, the brushfire turning the world into one giant glowing orb, a camera filter set to blur.
I've landed here for the express purpose of using the payphone. Unfortunately, with the advent of cell phones, most of these are forgotten and left to decay, to break down, to rot. They become living relics. The two quarters in my hand jangle against each other uselessly. Graffiti inside the awning, dirt in the crevices, a few cigarette butts, a telephone number. Call Sandy for a good time! Mike x Jane 4EVA etched with what was surely the end of a key. I have Esme's number memorized but no way to call her, no way to tell her that I'm okay besides this void both in my stomach and in my heart. Inside the gas station, the cashier falls asleep again, chin in hand squishing up into cheek, eyelids fluttering. I sneak in quickly, waiting to see if the ding of the bell alerts him. There is no response. I wander through the aisles quickly, with purpose, keeping low behind the shelves, grabbing anything that can fit into my pockets. Candy bars. Gum. A can of soda, removed from its six-pack family. Until my jacket and jeans bulge and the security camera's footage behind the cash register has seen too much. I slip out the door as quickly as I entered and walk into the night.
Three days later, I am at another gas station. Slightly different neon coloring, three cars and two trucks, a motel next door no vacancy sorry. All of these places are the same, as if someone carved out a template and dropped versions at varying intervals across this country built for the automobile. I look at the pair of trucks, their drivers taking a smoke break in front of the massive engines, one leaning against the door and the other scuffing his boot into the pavement. They look older than me and much wiser. They pay me no mind, even as I skirt the perimeter like the thief that I am, searching for the payphone. I find it around the back next to a locked bathroom door. It doesn't look promising, the handle rattling on the hook in the breeze. Around me, yellow pollen drifts down like a first snowfall, gathering in the cracks of the asphalt, the nooks and crannies, any sheltered spot. I pick up the phone and, miraculously, there is a dial tone. That familiar, droning hum.
From my pocket, I remove the two quarters, feed them into the slot, dial, and pray. There is a click as the line connects, as the hum turns to ringing, three slow and steady tries. I'm not sure what time it is. Likely, Esme is at the coffee shop and Carlisle, the lot. I am counting on this, on the comforting Hi there, you've reached the Cullens. We're not home to take your call right now, but please leave a message and we'll get back to you shortly. I don't inhale, waiting out the rings, wanting that script. Needing it. Instead, on the last ring, a hasty voice answers.
"Hello?"
It's Esme, slightly breathless. I picture her on her way out the door. I am silent, my mouth dry, the words trapped in my throat. The pressure of holding back. A bee buzzes by my ear and I slap it away, diverting its thirst for pollen.
"Hello?" Again. Because I haven't spoken. "...John?"
Tentative now, thoughtful. Anxious. I swallow even though there is no spit, no liquid in my mouth.
"John is that you?"
"It's me," I manage to croak out, my voice hoarse from lack of use. I can't remember the last time I spoke. I have reduced language to nods and grimaces, serious glances and gestures. I am an accidental mute, wandering blind. In my pocket there is a half eaten Snickers bar and, if I'm lucky, I will find a rest area with public bathrooms and a water fountain. I avoid my reflection not because I fear what I look like, but because I do not like who I see. Like a ghost, like a vampire. I have no identity. No tether. No one looks back at me.
"Thank God," she exhales. I hear a clatter, keys against the counter perhaps? High-heeled shoes on the floor? "Carlisle's not here right now, he's at the lot. I wish he were here. When are you coming home?" All of the words come out blended together, a mash up, a stream of consciousness, pent-up thoughts, a dam burst.
"I don't have a home," I reply, my brow pursed in confusion. I am a wanderer, a ship with a dislodged anchor, drifting, drifting in the open sea.
"Yes you do. Your home is here. With us."
"No. Look, Esme. I'm grateful you took me in," I say, then correct myself. "I mean, us in. But I can't impose on you any longer. Not you or Carlisle."
"You're not imposing."
"I am."
"You're not."
"I am."
"John," she growls, frustrated.
"You were just helping us get back on our feet. And you did. And now she doesn't need me anymore," I force out.
"Who? Tanya? Where is she?"
"She's gone."
"Where are you?"
"I'm not sure…"
"Stay where you are, we'll come get you. We'll take one of Carlisle's trucks. Just give me a landmark." She's speaking faster now. We're butting up on the deadline, fifty cents only lasts so long. I long for the operator's voice to cut off this torture.
"I just wanted to say thank you and goodbye," I say hastily. "I never thanked you or said goodbye."
"John, where are you?" she repeats, more emphatically this time. And for a moment, I consider it. I consider telling her, having her or Carlisle come, drive to me, find me, pick me up, save me, keep me, serve me, their family and their son, their charity case and their burden. I take a deep breath, look around me and the landscape, its lack of any originality, of anything unique, of any identifying markers. Beside me, the two truckers climb back into their cabins, there is a low rumble and a puff of exhaust as one of the engines roars to life.
There is another click, the operator disconnecting the call, asking if I have more change, if I'd like to continue. I don't and I don't. I sigh, gently replacing the phone to the hook, leaning my head against the heated plastic, scratched with messages of travelers gone by, forgotten and permanent, lost to time.
x
"Wake up! Wake up!" Bella is atop me, straddling my legs. I am groggy, rubbing at my eyes with my firsts, stretching out against the couch. She is whisper-shouting in my ear, just loud enough to wake me but not loud enough to wake the house. I cast my eyes around wildly, searching for context. It is dark out, the glow of the moon shining through the windows. It is the second to last night of my impromptu vacation, crashing on Carlisle and Esme's couch like the lost teenager of yore. For a moment, I think I am myself back then, hungover or high, hand reaching for Tanya, always wondering where she was and if she was a real, tangible thing before me.
Bella's face fills my field of vision, her hair long and in tangles, tank-top and cotton shorts, bare feet, painted toenails. Her eyes glint mischievously, her hands drag through my hair and dig into the pillow, fingertips scratching my scalp. I lean toward her, an invisible force that pulls. I am in orbit and it only grows stronger the more I resist. I let myself go, tilt upward, folding at my hips, resting my forehead on the skin of her neck, moist from sleep. I blow on the sweat there, watch as her skin pebbles beneath the cool air. She wraps her arms around my neck and I wrap my own around her waist. Through the fabric, I feel how warm she is, her smell so familiar like I've known it my whole life. Even in the moonlight, I see all of her. Her skin is a prairie. Her hair is a field in summertime, dry, brittle wheat, waiting for the gust of wind.
She is one with the earth and the earth one with her. For her, I bleed.
"I couldn't sleep," she confesses, breath hot. She pulls back and I catch the whites of her eyes, so light in the darkness, the flash of an incisor revealed behind a tight smile. Her cheeks are flushed, rosy, her lips two flower petals at full bloom.
I pull her to me so tightly that she squeaks, a small noise, her hands near my shoulder blades. My shirt is off but hers isn't. The barrier between us is so thin and tantalizing, an annoyance. I picture my hands grasping the fabric and tearing, ripping, removing. Her breathing picks up as if she can hear my thoughts, feel my arousal through my pajama bottoms, through the blanket draped over my legs and waist. I press myself into her, insisting, questioning. She looks at me for a long moment, the brown of her eyes turned black, melding with pupils into one vacant window, driving me mad. Then, she nods.
I stand, her legs still wrapped around my waist. Surely, she can feel me now, how ready I am, how desperately needy, how much I want her, before me, around me, through me, inside me, beneath me. I am folded around her in the tight cabin, too small for the two of us, rain pattering on the roof of the truck. I am a heartbeat driving a car, glancing her way, precious cargo sat beside. Her face on the dotted line, placed in my path, waiting for me. She cannot drive but she is beginning to read. Slowly but surely, she is learning. My hands lift her from beneath as I climb the stairs quietly, avoiding the creaky step, two specters coasting through the hall, haunting it, to her bedroom once my bedroom now our bedroom.
I lay her down, her back on the soft fabric of the sheets, legs canted, knee high. I remember her bruise, the grass stains on her shorts, her calluses, a life built on hands and knees. A lost girl and a lost boy, together become found. It is hard to look away from her. It is like watching a miracle of nature. It is staring at a solar eclipse. A beautiful burn. Instead of turning, I walk backward until I hit the wall.
I reach over and shut the door. Then lock it.
x
thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and recommending this. just a reminder that this fic is rated M... for adult themes ;)