26.
There is a break in the chain fencing. It rattles slightly when I curve it back, twist it through my fingers, folding it like a sheet. It isn't raining yet but the sky is threatening it, the clouds thick and bunched up against each other, not the dreamlike marshmallows of children's illustrations but the tempest above open water, a painting on the cover of Old Man and the Sea or Moby Dick. The weather a character unto itself, a member of the scene, conniving and plotting with motivations all its own. Tanya glances upward as if reading my mind, a wayward look, her hair already double its size from the humidity, curled strands collecting drops of dew as if saving them for later. Saving them for a sunny day.
"Go on," I gesture, pulling the chain back a bit further, just large enough for an adult to slip through. She does as I say, curling up into a ball and crawling, the buckle of her leather jacket catching momentarily on the metal. She wiggles and worms her way free. I twist my body around to follow, feeling the cold material as it brushes against my bare skin where my collar is torn slightly. What caused the tear, I am unsure. My recollection of the last week is spotty at best. I still feel the remnants of a hangover. That heaviness, the sticky muscles, the way my tongue feels a bit too large in my mouth, dry despite the wetness all around, tough and uncooperative.
I follow Tanya as she walks through the empty lot, lights off, dusk fallen. There is a shop in the distance, a cabin type of command center, its windows dark, a heavy padlock on the door. It is well past dinner time on a Friday, the employees gone, no lookout for an industrial lot that holds nothing but out-of-work 18-wheelers, lined up and evenly spaced out like little chiclets or legos. With a practiced ease, Tanya begins to check the locks on the back of the cargo holds. A jerk of the shoulder blade, a flex of the bicep as she rattles the handles, waiting to see which one will give. We count on the negligence of the truckers, their one forgotten step, to lock the back of the empty hull, its vacuous, cavernous interior a temporary sanctuary.
I do the same on the other side, testing one, then the next, then the next. There are few distinguishing characteristics in this place, there rarely are in these types of lots. The outskirts of Tacoma, its shades of grey, its tentative drizzle, its soft gray clouds. And us, among it, lost and found. Beside me, Tanya is shivering even though it is not excessively cold. It is the impenetrable, unstoppable damp that does it. It's the normalcy in it, the reliability. I, myself, thrive in the climate. Tanya does not. She searches for the sun.
With a tug, my hand finds what we've been looking for. There's a gentle rumble as the back of a midsize truck begins to roll open, halfway up by the time I let go. Tanya is still walking on in a daze, her form advancing further and further into the distance.
"Hey!" I call, careful of my noise, part yell and part whisper. She turns, questioning, then approaches when she sees what I've found. She doesn't smile and there are lines at the corners of her eyes that I've never noticed before, creases that cut and stayed. She climbs into the truck, rolling beneath the partially opened door. I follow, pulling on the inner handle until only a crack of light shows, casting an inverse shadow on the wooden bed of the truck. There is no cargo inside, it is like a symmetrical cave, walls thin and metal, a furniture blanket rolled up in the corner. I grab it and smack it against the side of the hull, watching as dust falls around me, decorating my feet like a layer of new snow. Tanya coughs once and the sound bounces around us a hundred times, then drifts and dies somewhere between us, landing in the nothingness. I want to brace my hands on my knees and scream, a prepubescent boy staring into the Grand Canyon with wonder, wanting to hear any voice, but most importantly his own voice, parroted back at him. Echo! Echo! Echo!
"It's dark in here," she says, zipping up her jacket until it cuffs under her chin, the dimple there splicing the cleft in half, her down-turned lips pale, in stark contrast to her cheeks which are rosy from the cold. She is an impressionist painting, smudged in the half-light, with all the characteristics of a person but beneath a warbled layer as if hovering right below the surface of the water. I take her hands and rub them against my own, blowing into our palms together, my hot breath warming them, the tingle in my fingertips. I feel myself to be a hunting Native American, the truck my kill. I use all of its parts. I hang her damp jacket on an outcropped bolt, wrap us both in the furniture blanket, its dusty blue smell of the earth and something more potent, a hint of mold, the tang of fresh varnish, the texture of a worn cardboard box.
She threads her arms around my back, pressed up against my skin. I tell myself that it will be dark soon. And at dark, I will close the truck fully and we will be invisible. At dawn, we will slip out and none will be the wiser. I repeat this to myself, a mantra, a reminder. Close the truck, sleep, slip out. Above us, rain begins to patter against the metal, a light but insistent sound, a lullaby, the tranquil rocking of a ship in a mild storm, anchored at a lighthouse. Out there it is wet but we are in here. Out there it is cold but we are in here. Tanya is asleep and I follow gratefully and gracelessly, my mantra slipping through my fingers like rainwater.
I am awoken to a roar, loud and quick like a crack of lightning. I bolt upright, the furniture blanket falling around me. Tanya is gone, though her jacket still hangs on the bolt. There is a dim, white light and I realize that it is morning, and the sound of lightning was the grinding slide of the truck opening, of the level rising, of the daylight shining in. I turn and squint, see two silhouettes before me. One is Tanya, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes wide. The other is a middle-aged man, blonde hair, face impressively blank. I puff my chest out, try to look bigger, a futile animalistic response.
"And what's your name?" the man asks. Tanya looks abashed and she won't meet my eye.
"Tucson," I reply slowly, knowing that, no matter what this man has planned, this name doesn't match the name on my driver's license. "I'm sorry. It was raining."
I see that he is holding two styrofoam cups. He waits until I hop down from the truck, scrambling and unattractive, until he hands the other to me. It is coffee, black as night, the steam still rising. It smells heavenly but I do not take a sip. I hold it out to Tanya. She shakes her head.
"Already had some," she mutters. "He let me use the bathroom. He manages the lot," she adds, wincing slightly in embarrassment of being caught.
"What's your real name?" the man asks me. I start, wondering if he's going to call the cops. Wondering if he already has. My eyes begin to adjust, my awareness growing, and I see that he doesn't look like the type. He's a middle class guy, a worker's man, flannel shirt and jeans, a hint of stubble, kind eyes. He makes me want to trust him and even though I know that it's foolish, I do.
"My name is John," I admit. Tanya looks at me now, eyes wide. She, too, is learning my name for the very first time.
"John," the man repeats with a slight nod. "I'm Carlisle." He holds out his hand and I grasp it firmly, his grip tight but not unwelcoming.
"I'm sorry," I repeat helplessly, feeling terribly young all of a sudden.
"No harm no foul," he says with the wave of a hand.
"We'll get out of your way," I say hastily.
"Would you like to join my wife and I for some breakfast? Tanya here has already accepted," he says, and I again search his tone for the catch. For what is lurking under the surface. There are no free rides. But, again, his earnestness shines through, the offer as clear and simple as the sunrise all around us.
"If you're sure I'm not a burden…" I say, trailing off, scuffing my shoe into the pavement. The toe digs into a muddy puddle, growing larger in the potholed, gravel terrain.
"I'm sure," he replies, then turns without waiting for a debate. Tanya and I glance at each other, perplexed. I hook my finger in hers, wanting that tether, wanting to feel the connection I'd abruptly woken up without. Then, we follow him, confused and curious, wondering what could possibly happen next.
x
When I wake, she's still asleep by my side, her chest rising and falling slowly, little hovering non-movement in-between almost as if she's holding her breath and waiting, holding off the next inhale until the last possible moment. I take a picture with my mind, the face on the milk carton, this is what the lost girl would look like after a night with me, sleeping peacefully, open and untainted and near. I count her breaths, my fingertip resting against her bare wrist, feeling her heartbeat through the thin skin there, the veins a latticed network visible beneath the translucence of her flesh. The blinds are up and the rising sun shines through the eastward facing window, casting rays of early morning light all across the bed, awash in day. It is an uncharacteristically cloudless day for fall in western Washington, the blue slightly washed out by the early morning sun. Through the glass, birds chirp hesitantly, confused by the notion of spring misplaced. Bella shuffles slightly and I think she's waking but instead she turns over, dragging the sheet with her, her back facing me, her spine's straight notches rolling and flexing and tightening, her shoulder blades meeting them separating, her hair like a wave crashing on the shore of the pillow.
I run my fingers through the tangles, working through where her hair catches and knots. It's still early, and I can hear Carlisle as he rumbles down the stairs. Surely, he will see that I'm no longer sleeping on the couch. Surely, he will have questions and seek me out. I push the thoughts away, pull myself back into the moment, lock myself down to the right now, to this bed, to the soft sheets, to Bella's bare skin, the curves and the angles of her, the freckles atop her shoulders, the curve of her ear no piercing, her knee no bruise, her hand clenched loosely in the sheet, how it falls low near her hips but not low enough, not quite low enough.
I wait in silence until I hear the front door close with a click, until the ignition of Carlisle's truck rumbling to life sounds in the driveway beneath us, until the birds chirp louder and more insistent, the day beckoning, coaxing, demanding. I am slow at first, tentative, hand on the dip of her hip, brushing against her forearm, lips on the nape of her neck. I sweep her hair to the side, touch my tongue to her ear, tangle my limbs with her limbs until her breathing rate increases, until her eyes flicker with wakefulness beneath closed lids. She opens them lazily, now on her back, staring up at me, a half-moon of pupil, brown beneath the heavy fringe of lashes, her lips quirking up slightly to find me above her, already waiting, already wanting.
I bend to kiss her but she stops me, palm pressed against my mouth. She twists to the side, escaping.
"Coffee," she requests. "And toothpaste."
"Fine," I begrudge, rolling my eyes playfully. She watches as I climb out of bed, pull on my long-forgotten pajama bottoms. I move, backing out slowly. "Don't move," I request.
"Where am I gonna go?" she winks, knees to her chest. "I haven't had coffee."
I'm still smiling when I enter the kitchen, knowing she takes her coffee with cream and sugar, knowing I prefer black. I fail to notice the steady drip of coffee already brewing, of Esme standing at the counter, empty mug in her hand, watching me, a concerned frown already on her lips. I look up, surprised to see her there, then transition quickly to nonchalance, reaching over her head to pull down two more mugs.
"Edward–" she begins, but I cut her off.
"It's fine."
"I just–"
"I said it's fine. We can make our own decisions and I don't want to hear it again," I repeat, looking desperately at the coffee for an escape route. It's still brewing its slow and deliberate drip.
"You're adults. Of course you can make your own decisions. It's just… Edward, Bella is starting to do very well. With the store, with reading, with driving. She might, you know, want to move out soon. Want to leave. That's all."
"I know," I reply, though in truth I haven't thought about that at all. That she is growing and learning and building. And that she will be wanting more. That of course she will be wanting more.
"I just don't want to see what happened with Tanya happen again–" Esme tries once more.
"I said it's fine, it won't, it's fine," I snap, too harshly.
I hastily pour two cups of coffee, the liquid splashing over the tops of the mugs. I'm halfway up the stairs before I realize I've forgotten Bella's cream and sugar. I debate feigning ignorance, then decide for a tactical retreat. I should apologize to Esme, as always. I was too harsh, too cruel. But when I return to the kitchen, ready to make amends, ready to tell her I understand, that she only wants what's best for me, that she doesn't want to be hurt again, I can't do it.
I can't because Esme is already gone.