A/N: If you're not familiar with Harry Chapin's incredibly poignant "Taxi", I suggest you go and listen to it right now. I'll wait. (6 minutes and 45 seconds pass.)
See what I mean about sad?
I was listening to it one night and the germ of this story came to mind.
In Second Chances, I went back early in canon to change things. This time I go back even further. An AU, but one with strong canon underpinnings.
My excellent beta, michaelfmx deserves many thanks for his insightful suggestions.
As does Zettel for his encouraging words.
Don't own Chuck et al.
Or Chapin's words. But I so grateful for them.
Enjoy!
—
TAXI
It's raining hard in Frisco.
The ugly, pelting kind of rain that drives people from the streets, scurrying to find shelter.
The kind of rain that makes finding casual customers difficult.
I should call it quits. And I would, except I desperately need one more fare to make my night.
Normally, aided by a shot of cheap Scotch, I'd be zonked out by now after another twelve-hour day in a seemingly endless stretch of twelve-hour days of driving cab. But the rent on my tiny room in Oakland is due. A few days overdue, if truth be told.
It's been a bad month for tips.
My landlord, a pot-bellied, balding, married man in his fifties, his half-opened shirt displaying three heavy gold chains around his neck, had made it clear that, if I couldn't come up with the cash, he'd be willing to accept…alternate…forms of payment.
I'd swallowed hard to fight off my sudden nausea and told him he'd have the money. Tomorrow, at the latest.
He'd been…disappointed.
So here I am, cruising the Mission District in the late hours, looking for some hopefully generous tipper who needs a ride. One who isn't drunk or stoned out of his or her mind, preferably.
But I'll take what I can get.
This isn't the life that I'd wanted, the life I'd dared to dream of for that one bright, shining moment. No, not remotely. But at least it's an honest existence. Unlike the one I'd lived with my father well into my teens. Being the daughter of a conman hadn't exactly prepared me for living in the 9-to-5 world. The life skills he'd taught me weren't the ones potential employers looked upon with favor.
I'd found that out when I finally decided enough was enough. A few months after we'd fled, ignominiously, from San Diego, I'd confronted my father. We'd been laying low, living off our emergency fund in order to not attract attention to ourselves. But that money was about to run out.
I made it clear that I wasn't about to have any part in defrauding yet another single mom out of her life savings or another senior citizen out of their pension check.
My father had been surprised. Even though I hadn't been involved with his last job, he'd obviously never visualized the day we might actually go our separate ways. I knew I shared part of the blame for that. I'd always unprotestingly followed his lead, even when I began to know better.
He'd given me half of what was left. I walked away with a $387.21, a single suitcase and the clothes on my back.
I lived on the streets for a while, then cheap rooms, bouncing from one place to another, from one low-level job to another. Fast-food server. Sales. Barista.
I took what I could get.
One day, a businessman had noticed me serving coffee to a long line of customers. He'd offered me a position with his company. He told me that he provided the model-types that hung around the products at car shows and such.
I'd been surprised by his offer. And puzzled. I was tall and knew I had a good figure. I'd also managed to scrounge up enough cash to have my braces removed a few years before, so the teeth were good, if not movie star perfect. But, in my opinion, that was about the sum of my assets.
I hadn't had the money for nice clothes or makeup. And not having a positive female role-model in my life, I hadn't picked up on many of the techniques girls used to emphasize their features.
I'd expressed my reservations, but he'd told me not to worry. He'd said he saw the potential in me. He went on to tell me he had people who would make me over, and provide me with the clothes I needed. They'd also teach me how to walk. In high heels, as it turned out. And how to engage the customers at the shows.
I was reluctant, but when he mentioned what I'd be making, I handed in my apron and walked out right then and there.
He kept his word.
Looking in the mirror after his people had done their work was, to put it mildly, a revelation.
Living on the streets had done much to take away my innocence, but I was still relatively inexperienced in that age-old battle between man and woman. However, even I could see that the woman staring back at me in that mirror would almost certainly come off victorious in that eternal struggle. The con in me recognized that I'd just been granted a gift. A gift that would have most men eating out of my hand, willing to do almost anything I asked of them.
But only I'd be willing to let them have what they wanted.
Or, at least, make them believe that they'd get what they wanted.
Me.
But I wasn't on the grift anymore, so I'd pushed the thoughts away, concentrated on doing my job.
Which I did well. We were required to know the product thoroughly, to be able to answer any legitimate question directed our way. I studied hard. I retained the information well. I guess part of that may have come from having to memorize so many fake backstories over the years.
Of course, that didn't change the fact that we were primarily there to be decorative. More often than not, the heels were, along with the hemlines, ridiculously high. I was constantly ogled by men and boys of all ages. Many of whom, I'm sure, visualized themselves being in the back seat with me in whatever vehicle I was pitching to the audience that day.
I'd realized after a while that my job was, in many ways, just a milder form of con. I was selling the idea that if you owned this vehicle, women such as myself would be falling all over themselves to be with you. Regardless of whether you were twenty or sixty. Skinny or fat. Pimple faced or liver-spotted.
It didn't sit well with me, but I needed the work.
Everything went well for about six months or so. Until one show where my boss pulled me aside and asked a favor of me.
A VP from the auto company we were representing that week had noticed me. He'd commented that I was doing a great job and wondered, as a reward, whether he might take me out to dinner?
I'd looked across to where my boss had gestured, saw the man he was speaking of. He was in his forties, tanned, good looking, dark wavy hair. But, even from where I stood, I could see the lighter band on his ring finger.
I should've said no, but my boss pleaded with me. Getting a long-term contract with the company the man represented would be huge. And I'd get a good bonus.
I told myself it was only dinner. Nothing more.
I acquiesced. A mistake. A big one.
The dinner had gone well. At first.
The man was charming. Witty. He regaled me with stories of his company. Told me about some of the half-baked plans the car designers had come up with, the monstrosities that would've resulted had their ideas been carried through.
But as he drank more and more, he moved closer and closer. I tried to unobtrusively keep my distance, but soon ran out of space in our secluded booth.
Finally, he was right beside me, his hip against mine. He reached down under the table, placed his hand on my bare thigh, started to push up the hem of my short skirt as he whispered in my ear what he wanted to do to me in his room upstairs.
I slapped him. Hard.
He'd been shocked. He told me that my boss had strongly suggested that I'd do whatever it took to guarantee getting the contract. After all, the girls he'd sent at past shows hadn't had any problems with such an arrangement. And the bonus that went with it.
I stood. Left the table. Furious. With him. My boss. Myself.
I went back to the convention center and changed. I left the dress and the shoes on the floor and gathered up my stuff. As I'd walked out of the changing room, I'd almost barreled into my about-to-be ex-employer. Apparently, he'd been informed of the client's displeasure and was looking for me.
It seemed he was just about to ask me to reconsider. But when he'd seen the look on my face, he'd shut his mouth with a snap and stepped back.
I held out my hand, told him in no uncertain terms that I was done and that I wanted my pay for the week. Now. In cash. He started to protest, but I knew from experience that he always carried a lot of cash on him.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet and paid me what I was owed. When I didn't withdraw my hand, he meekly added a couple of a hundred more.
I'd then informed him that by morning I'd be gone from the room I was sharing with one of the other girls. I'd gladly leave all the fancy clothes and shoes behind, so he didn't have to worry about that. Then I added that if I ever saw him again, I wouldn't be held responsible for my actions.
The next morning, I left Houston, vowed that I'd never return. And I haven't.
I had some money saved, so I drifted for the next couple of years, taking odd jobs here and there. Until the day I found myself in San Francisco low on funds. I happened to walk by the office of one of the cab companies and saw they were looking for drivers.
I'd always enjoyed driving and was quite good at it as well. And my life had endowed me with the skills, both physical and mental, that I'd need to fend off any unruly passengers. So I went in and applied. And that's where I've been working for the past few years.
And that's how I find myself here tonight, being waved down by a tall man wearing a rain-drenched trench coat over his tux. A black fedora, pulled down to keep out the rain, partially obscures his face.
I pull over and he gets in. He apologizes quietly for getting the seat wet, but I wave it off.
If the expensive clothes and shoes hadn't already given it away, the address he gave me in Pacific Heights tells me he has money.
I think about commenting about the weather, but I sense he isn't in a talkative mood. He just looks out the side window.
Something about him is familiar.
I ask him if we'd met before, but he tells me I must be mistaken.
I keep glancing in my rear-view, catching intermittent glimpses of him as we pass from light to dark to light under the streetlights. I can see the frown on his face.
Then it clicks.
It's him—the boy, now the man, I'd left behind all those years ago.
I remember, clear as day, the first time I saw him. At the beginning of my senior year at James Buchanan High.
He was new, clearly feeling a little lost as he stood in the hallway with the other students swirling about him. He had a piece of paper in his hand. Looking for his homeroom, as it turned out.
He was tall. Lanky was the word that somehow popped into my mind. He had this almost wild mop of curly, soft-looking, brown hair.
I was envious. I would've gladly traded my lank, coarse hair for his, despite all the problems I was sure he had in attempting to tame those curls each morning.
I knew what it felt like to be new, to be the outsider. I couldn't recall how many times I'd found myself in that very situation. So I went to him. Offered to help.
His grateful smile touched something inside of me. He had lovely brown eyes.
He told me his name. It wasn't one you hear every day. It was easy to see that he expected some sort of comment about it.
Chuck. Chuck Bartowski. A real name. An honest one.
I liked it and told him so.
He'd smiled again, waited for me to introduce myself.
Part of me wanted to be honest with him, but what real choice did I have? I was Jenny Burton, had been since we'd hit San Diego. I couldn't very well tell him something different.
When I'd replied, he smiled and offered his hand, which I took as he told me he was happy to meet Jenny Burton.
I was happy to meet him, too.
It turned out we had the same homeroom and a few classes together.
It seemed natural for us to fall in with each other. We started eating lunch together. Walking together between shared classes.
Somehow, being with him gave me the strength I needed to dismiss as juvenile and meaningless the snickers and thinly-veiled looks of contempt from the "cool kids."
After a while, he told me how he'd wound up in San Diego. His sister, Ellie, had been in medical school at UCLA, but, planning to pursue a particular specialty, she'd transferred to UCSD for her final year. He'd come with her.
When I'd asked why he didn't stay with his parents, he'd reluctantly, almost ashamedly, told me that they weren't in the picture. First his mother, then his father, had left, leaving some money behind to help. And leaving his sister, though young herself, to raise him.
I'd tried to picture the sacrifices and hard work that responsibility had laid upon her. I could see the fierce love he felt for her.
I'd envied him, having someone to care for that deeply. And to be cared for that deeply.
That he was super-intelligent was readily apparent after I got to know him better. Not that he bragged about himself or paraded his smarts around.
We just talked. During lunch. Over burgers after school. On drives. Although those didn't happen right away.
I had this yellow 1990 Golf Cabriolet that my father had scrounged up somewhere. I loved that little car. It wasn't particularly fast, and it didn't handle anything like a sports car, but I loved driving it. It was a Porsche in my imagination.
Being on the road made me feel free. Feeling my hair, ugly as it was, blowing in the breeze seemed to take the weight off my shoulders. I'd sing along with the radio, knowing no one could hear my out of tune voice.
It was mine. My place. My haven.
I'd shared it with no one.
Until the day I'd asked him, diffidently, if he would like to go for a ride after school. Somehow, he'd seemed to sense the gravity of my request, had solemnly, thankfully, accepted my offer.
In my mind's eye, I can still see him in the passenger seat grinning at me.
Quite quickly, I'd found out that he liked to sing along with the radio as well. He had a lovely voice, such that I was afraid to join in lest I betray my inadequacies. But it wasn't long before he'd noticed I remained quiet. Kindly, patiently, he'd encouraged me to join in.
I was tentative at first, but seeing the non-judgment in his eyes, hearing it in his words, was enough to push me past my self-doubt. I'd sung along, timidly at first. He'd smiled and complimented my voice.
I'd laughed and chucked him in the shoulder. Told him he was a really bad liar.
I would know because I was a really good one, had been for years.
It became our routine on Friday nights to drive up the coast, away from the city lights. We'd park the car at a particularly secluded beach, put the top down and recline our seats as far back as they would go.
It wasn't what you'd think or expect from hormone-driven teenagers.
I'm not saying there wasn't some kissing and a few undone buttons. Maybe a bit more. But we were both clumsy, inexperienced, afraid that if we went any further it might ruin what we had, something we'd never defined in so many words.
Especially not that word.
We'd lay back, holding hands, looking up at the stars that filled our nights.
And we'd talk. About anything and everything.
Almost everything.
I didn't bring up my past, the life I'd led on the road with my father. I existed only in the sense of the time I'd been in San Diego.
I wasn't going to lie to him, any more than I had already had. Feed him untruths as I'd done with so many others so many times before.
He'd noticed, of course, that my reminisces only went back a little over a year. But he never let on, never pressured me. He accepted me for who I was at that moment.
One night, he'd started talking about who he'd be ten years into the future. He told me about the Charles Carmichael persona he conjured up, the uber-successful software magnate. Able to semi-retire while still young.
He'd chuckled, self-deprecatingly, looking up at the heavens.
I hadn't laughed. I had no doubt he could do it. I'd told him so.
He'd squeezed my hand a little tighter, went on more seriously about how he hoped his grades would be good enough to get a scholarship from Stanford. He planned to major in computer science and electrical engineering.
When he'd told me that I was the first person to whom he'd admitted his Carmichael dreams, I hadn't known if I should laugh or cry.
No one had ever confessed their secrets to me. Not without me conning them.
When he'd turned to me, waiting, I hadn't been able to come up with anything right away.
My life had, for so long, been aimless, living from hand to mouth. How could I even begin to plan for some sort of future when, for most of my days, I hadn't known where I'd be or who I'd be, next month, next week or even the next day?
My time in San Diego had been the longest I'd stayed in a single place since I was seven and had chosen, that fateful day, to leave with my father. And I'd never used the same name for such a long period, either. Used to shedding and putting on identities like changing clothes, it'd been strange to be just one person for all these months.
Strange, but also satisfying. With Chuck's example of real in front of me, I'd begun to think that maybe, just maybe, this was who'd I be from now on. That I might call San Diego my hometown.
Still, at that point, I hadn't given it much thought, so when he'd looked to me for my dreams, I had to pull something off of the top of my head.
He'd always commented on how I loved to drive, fast, dodging in and out of traffic, taking corners at speeds he wasn't exactly comfortable with. And a name came to mind. A simple one. One I hadn't used before.
I told him I was going to be Sarah Walker, the first woman to win the Monaco Grand Prix and the Formula One championship along with it.
I'd expected him to laugh, or at least smile at my crazy idea.
But he didn't. He just nodded his head solemnly and told me I could do anything I wanted.
I started to believe him. With my fractured, itinerate past, I didn't have the academic record that would withstand the scrutiny of any of the big schools, but perhaps I could attend one of the community colleges.
I'd started looking into them. Made a list of possibilities. It occurred to me that I might be able to work with children in some capacity or other. Child-care work, perhaps even a kindergarten teacher.
I shyly told Chuck about my plans, my dreams. He'd smiled and told me I'd be great at it.
It was only later, after my hopes had been shattered, that I'd realized that this was my attempt, in some small way, to reclaim my lost childhood. And to do whatever I could to make sure other children didn't lose theirs.
Shortly before graduation, Chuck found me in the hallway after my last class. He was always so open about his feelings that I could tell he was excited about something, even though I could also see he was trying to hide it.
He asked if we could take a drive to our spot. I agreed.
When we got there, he told me he'd gotten the scholarship he'd wanted. I hugged him, truly happy for him.
He then asked me, shyly, tentatively, if I might consider attending a college closer to Palo Alto.
He'd hastily assured me that he wasn't asking me to move in with him or anything like that. It was just that he couldn't bear the thought of being so far from me.
I'd realized at that moment that I felt the same, had done so for quite some time.
I'd asked myself if this was what loving someone meant. Wanting to be with him pretty much all the time. Feeling like I was a good, whole person when I was around him. Believing him when he told me I could be more than I'd ever thought I could be. And returning the favor because I wanted him to feel as good about himself as he made me feel.
I should have said yes, right then and there. But the prospect frightened me.
The whole idea was just so…solid. Definite. And I was still getting used to that.
I'd told him I'd have to think about it.
I should've said yes.
Maybe if I had, I would've had the courage to say no later.
He'd smiled, relieved, I believe, that I hadn't turned him down flat.
We drove back to town and I dropped him off at his place.
He'd leaned in before getting out of the car and gently kissed me. He'd turned and waved when he'd reached the door of his place.
I'd smiled and waved back.
Until tonight, that was the last time I'd seen him.
My father had awoken me in the early hours of the next day.
He'd been frightened. I'd never seen him frightened before.
He told me that we had to go. He'd just found out that the long con he'd been running, the one that'd kept us in San Diego for the past year, the one that I'd refused to have any dealings with, had somehow dragged in a member of a Mexican drug cartel. The kind of cartel that shoots first then shoots again and still doesn't ask any questions
And to top that off, my dad had also learned the Feds were in town, very close to finding him.
We had to go. Now.
I told him there no longer was a "we". Just him. I wasn't going to go with him this time.
He was speechless for a few moments.
Then he told me he was worried about what would likely happen to me if I stayed behind. One group or the other, maybe both, could come after me, trying to track down Jack Burton. He told me I might wind up in jail…or worse.
I knew he was genuine in his concern, but I also knew him well enough to know that, in the end, he was more afraid for himself than he was for me.
Either imprisonment or an ugly death awaited him if he was caught.
Still, I resisted. I didn't want to leave the beginnings of a real life behind.
I didn't want to leave Chuck behind.
My father begged me to go with him. I'd never seen him beg. I caved. How could I not?
He was my father.
When I told him I needed to tell Chuck what had happened and why I had to go, he replied that it'd be dangerous to involve anyone else in what was going on.
As much as I'd hated to admit it, I'd known he was right. Telling Chuck too much would only put him in danger.
I'd scrawled out a hasty note. An abbreviated apology. A terse goodbye.
After we'd hastily packed, I told my dad there was one thing I had to do. Non-negotiable.
I drove my Golf to Chuck's place. There I signed the pink slip, left the line blank for the new owner. Chuck. It was all I could do.
I'd only hoped that, somewhere down the road, he would find some way to not hate me.
I put the keys, the pink slip and my note into an envelope and quietly slipped it through the mail slot of Chuck's door.
After that, we drove away into the darkness. I didn't look back. I wasn't going to cry.
I've never been back to San Diego. Too many memories.
And now Chuck Bartowski is in the back seat of my taxi.
I don't know if I should laugh with joy or howl in pain at whatever has brought him back into my life at this juncture.
Is it mere coincidence? Or is the universe trying to tell me something?
I'm not sure I even want to know the answer.
I'd thought about him. A lot. At first. So many times, I'd picked up the phone and entered his number only to hang up before there was a connection.
Whatever we'd had once was gone. I'd tossed it away with both hands. He didn't need or deserve to have the painful memories of my abandonment thrown in his face again and again.
As the weeks and months and years had passed, I'd pushed him from my mind. And, as those events receded into the past, I began to understand that my time with him had been an anomaly. That the dreams he'd engendered within me were never going to be mine.
That someone as good as him could never be mine.
The life I have now is all I deserve. My penance for what I'd done at my father's side.
And for abandoning the truest, kindest soul I'd ever known.
So I did all I could to forget Chuck Bartowski. And I'd succeeded.
Or, at least, I thought I had.
Then one night, a few years ago, a passenger left his copy of Wired on the back seat. Chuck was on the cover, or more accurately, Charles Carmichael was on the cover.
The Wunderkind.
I'd devoured the article.
Fresh out of Stanford, he'd developed a program, the Intersect, which had revolutionized some aspect of the internet. Something to do with search engines.
He'd been given obscene amounts of money for it, became a multi-millionaire while still in his twenties. And, with a string of further successes, he was well on his to way to joining the billionaire club.
However, the article also went on to say how generous he'd been with his wealth, quietly supporting numerous charities and scholarships.
Instead of throwing away the magazine as I should've, I'd kept it beside my bed. Some nights when I couldn't sleep, I'd look at the pictures of him and permit myself to wonder about what might've been.
Not the money part. The being with him part.
It takes a while, but I see him look into the mirror. He glances at the license for my name. I can tell he's confused. Very little of the girl he once knew remains. And the name on the license is not the one he knew.
I've been Sarah Walker for almost as long as we've been apart. It's the only thing I carried away from the time I'd spent at his side with the stars in our eyes.
After a few moments, I see the light come on. He puts the pieces together.
Nonetheless, he sounds tentative as he leans forward and asks, "Jenny? Is it really you?"
I keep my eyes on the road, just nod as I look in the rearview.
Inanely, I reply, "Hi, Chuck. How are you?"
The flash of joy I'd seen on his face vanishes as if it never was. He's angry. Justifiably so. "Ten years and all you've got to say is, 'Hi, Chuck? How are you?'"
Before I can stop myself, the words spill out. "I'm sorry."
"For what? For leaving me with no warning? No real goodbye? No real explanation?
"For not taking one goddamned minute out of your life to let me know you were OK? An email? A text? A postcard? Anything would've been better than the nothing you gave me."
I'd never seen him this way before. I cringe, speechless, before his fury.
"Do you really think that saying you're sorry will make up for all of that, Jenny?" He looks at the license again. "Or should I say, Sarah?"
His voice drips with sarcasm. "How long have you been using that one?"
He gives me no chance to answer, just goes on, shaking his head.
"After you left, I asked everyone at school, teachers and students, but no one seemed to know anything substantial about Jenny Burton. Nobody knew where you'd come from, not really. Or where'd you'd gone.
"It turned out that I knew you better than anyone and, yet, I knew almost nothing.
"I even hacked into the school records. It turned out that your transfer documents were all bogus, although no one had noticed.
"I'd hit a brick wall. So I started to look for you on the internet. But all the searches came up with nothing. Zilch. But I didn't give up.
"Oh, no, Chuck Bartowski was too stupid to see the writing on the wall.
"So I started to write my own program, whenever I could find spare time from my studies at Stanford. A search engine that would look beyond the obvious, one that would hunt for subtle connections…informational nuances…that might lead me to you."
It suddenly hits me. "That's the program you sold. The one that made you tons of money."
He tersely replies, "Yes."
"You did that for me. To find me."
"Yes.
"But guess what? When I finished, I still couldn't find Jenny Burton."
He asks, rhetorically, "And you know why?
"Because my program told me something I should've realized all along. That she didn't really exist. Never had.
"She was a fabrication. A lie. A ghost. As was your dad.
"As I kept searching, I started making up these scenarios in my head. Maybe the two of you were in witness protection, on the run from the mob? Maybe you were undercover spies?"
He shrugs, a little sheepishly. "I read a lot of comic books. Watched too much television."
His voice hardens once more. "But the more I looked, the more I got the feeling that matters weren't really on the up and up with Jack and Jenny Burton.
"I could never find any concrete proof, but I came across tenuous connections to other names, other places. To cons that had been perpetrated across most of the lower 48.
"When I found that out, I started to think that everything we had together had been a lie as well. A con I've never been able to understand. Ellie and I had almost nothing, so what could you hope to take from us?
"Then it came to me that maybe you'd been practicing on me. So that, when you found some trust fund baby, you'd have your spiel all sorted out and ready to go.
"And maybe you left me when you found him."
I feel my indignation rising. "No, that's not what I was doing. That's not what happened."
He snaps back, savagely. "Why the hell should I believe you?"
Even though I deserve most of his bitter recriminations, I'm angered and hurt by his lack of faith in me, so I lash out. "If that's what you really think of me, I doubt there's anything I could say to make you change your mind!"
"You're damn right about that." He sits back, stares out the side window again, our conversation done.
Our mutual acrimony fills my cab, heavy, palpable.
This wasn't the way things had gone in the dreams I'd had about meeting him again.
I want to scream in frustration. Instead, I bite my tongue, look straight ahead.
There wasn't much more for us to say. We cover the remaining distance to his house without another word passing between us. I pull past the gate, into the driveway, past the fine trimmed lawns. I stop in front of the door.
"We're here."
I feel his eyes on me, but I don't turn.
His hand appears in my side vision, handing me a hundred-dollar bill for a twenty-dollar fare.
His voice sounds a little less harsh, but the anger is still there.
"Jenny, keep the change. It looks like you could use it."
Well, another woman might have been angry.
And another woman might have been hurt.
But another woman never would have let him go.
I stash the bill in my shirt.
He walks away in silence. Closes his front door behind him without looking back.
It's strange, how you never know, but we'd both gotten what we'd asked for such a long, long time ago.
Here he is successful, looked up to, rich beyond his imagining.
And I'm racing my taxi down the streets and up the hills of San Francisco.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the steering wheel, feeling infinitely weary and utterly defeated. The windshield wipers clack from side to side in their futile attempt to clear away the torrential rain.
Why couldn't I tell him how much I'd missed him?
Why didn't I tell him I loved him back then?
Still do.
I now know that the love had always been there. I'd just hidden it away in some deep, dark place within me. A place I'd only allowed myself to visit, infrequently and for the briefest of moments, never admitting to myself what it was I saw. And felt.
Until tonight. Just seeing him, hearing him, has laid waste to my carefully constructed self-deception.
The irony is that my epiphany has come ten minutes too late.
This time he's left me behind.
For good, it seems.
It's the most bitter of pills to swallow.
The tears I'd held in for so many years finally make their way down my heated cheeks. I try to hold back my choking sobs. Minutes pass, I'm not sure how many before I'm able to regain some composure.
I'll probably have to double up on the scotch tonight. Maybe more.
I swipe at my eyes as I put the cab in gear and turn it around. Slowly, I head back toward the street.
Then he's there, right in front of me, illuminated in the glow of my headlights, standing in the pouring rain. His bowtie undone. No trench coat. No hat.
I slam on the brakes, stopping a couple of feet away from him.
We look into each other's eyes for a few moments. He comes over to my door. Opens it. Offers his hand. Heedless of the downpour, I turn off the engine and step out of my taxi. I take his hand.
"Come with me." As an afterthought, he adds, "Please." He walks fast, almost dragging me towards his multi-car garage. He stops in front of one door. He drops my hand and fishes around in his pocket for his keys. He presses a button on a fob and the door opens.
We step inside and he turns on the light. There sits my little yellow Golf, just the way I remembered it.
I stare at him, incredulous.
"I've kept it all these years. Do you know why?"
I shake my head, dumbfounded.
"I thought…I hoped…that, if you wouldn't come back for me, maybe you'd come back for it.
"And when you did, I'd get to see you again. And maybe you'd tell me why you left. And just maybe we could pick up where we left off."
He closes his eyes, head bowed.
"The months and years passed. The hope paled and splintered. But I couldn't let it go. The car was all I had left of you. Of the time we'd spent together.
"The best days of my life."
He turns to look at me, the remnants of the rain streaming down his face. Maybe some tears as well. I can't be sure.
"I loved you."
Speechless, I reach out to touch him, but he pushes my hand away.
"Let me finish." He's harsh.
"For years after, I kept telling myself that it wasn't really love. Just a stupid, juvenile high school infatuation that would pass with time.
"But it didn't.
"I tried, really tried, to put those feelings behind me. Told myself I had to let myself take a chance with someone else. Someone who would help me push you from my mind. A woman who'd stay around to share her life with me.
"Once, I thought I'd found her. At Stanford. Jill. I thought that I loved her and she loved me. But when it seemed to her that I'd never amount to anything, she dumped me. Moved on with someone else.
"Until tonight, when she showed up at the charity gala I was hosting. She asked me to forgive her for leaving. She told me she'd been foolish to ever leave me behind and would I consider taking her back? It didn't take me long at all to figure out what was going on. Her first husband hadn't been as successful as she'd hoped he'd be. She was looking to step up.
"That's when I turned my back on her and headed down to the hotel bar. Then, two hours later, you picked me up. Walking the streets."
He sighs, heavily. "It seems like it was my night to meet women from my past. Those who've left me behind."
He sighs, reaches into his other pocket. Pulls out a set of keys I recognize.
"Here. You can have your car back. I have no further use for it."
He drops the keys in my hand, his tone and body language dismissive. He turns to walk toward the door at the far end of the garage.
I glance from the Golf to my taxi sitting in the rain. It suddenly occurs to me that both vehicles are the color of cowardice.
I was coward back then, too ashamed, too afraid to ever let him fully into my life. Never telling him how much I cared for him.
And if I walk back to my cab, let him walk away now, it'll only be further proof that I'm still a coward, that I don't have the strength to alter my path.
Still, my residual anger with his negative attitude drives me to close the distance between us and grab his arm. He turns, winces a bit.
I'd forgotten how strong my grip can be. I draw back my hand.
I shout at him, "Do you want to know why I left you back then, Chuck? Or are you afraid you'll hear something that'll upset the poor-me scenario you've constructed over the years?"
For a moment it seems he's going to shout back at me, but appearing to think better of it, he just tersely replies, his arms crossed in front of him, "Go ahead. Explain."
I step back and take a deep breath. "You were on the right track. My father was a criminal, a conman. Still is, as far as I know. And I'd been his accomplice since I was seven years old. Worked with him right down until just before we met. I'd finally had enough."
The shock is clear on his face. "Since you were seven? How…"
"My parents split up. I went with him, made the childish, selfish choice."
"And he taught you how to con people."
"Yes. We were a team. Sometimes successful. Other times, less so. We moved around a lot. Changed names often. Always one or two steps ahead of the cops.
"It was the only life I knew."
His expression softens. His hands drop to his sides. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
I shrug. "It was what it was. For a long time, I thought it was fun. Until I began to understand what we were doing. Some of our marks were greedy and dishonest. Looking for the quick buck. But a lot of them were good people, just trying to find a way to take care of their families, to give them some kind of future.
"When I finally realized that, I wouldn't have any further part in his schemes."
"What were you doing in San Diego?"
"I was trying to get an education, but my father was working on a long con, on his own. However, this time he'd dug himself a hole too deep to get out of. Unwittingly, he'd cheated a member of the Sanchez cartel. They were after him, very close to finding him. When they did, they would've killed him, nastily, messily."
His face pales.
"And that wasn't all. The feds were hot on his tail as well. Just about ready to arrest him and throw away the key. He had to get out of town. Fast. He asked me to go with him."
"Dammit, Jenny. Why would you agree? Why would you give up your life, your future, for him?"
I answer with a question. "Chuck, if Ellie was in danger, how far would you go?"
His response is immediate, vehement. "I'd do anything—everything—that was needed."
"Going with him was what I needed to do."
"I don't understand. You wouldn't have had to go into child care. You could've stayed with Ellie and me. We had enough room."
"Chuck, if I'd stayed, they'd have found me. The cartel would've used me, threatened me to get to my dad."
I pause to make sure I have his attention. "But it wasn't just him. Anyone close to me would've been in danger. You would've been in danger. They might have hurt you. Or Ellie."
"You're serious?" He looks slightly ill at the thought that harm may have to come to his sister.
It's hard for him to comprehend the kind of world I'd lived in. Yes, overt violence was rare but the threat of it always was always there, lurking in the background. What if one of our marks realized they'd been taken before we got out of town? What if they decided they were going to get their money back by whatever means necessary?
"Yes, I am. And I couldn't take that risk. So I left you in the dark. Purposely. Then, if anybody asked, you could honestly say you had no idea where we'd gone."
He huffs out a breath, running his hand over his wet curls. "I get it." He pauses. "But that doesn't explain why you didn't come back later or at least find some way of telling me you were alright, does it?
"So, why?"
That, of course, is the crux of the matter. Trust him to nail it so precisely.
I blush, my shame coloring my cheeks. "Because I was a coward. By the time I felt things had calmed down enough for me to come back, I was…afraid."
"Afraid of what? Of me?"
My words come out in rush. "I was afraid that you'd moved on. With someone else. I know it was selfish of me, but I didn't want to know that. I wanted to believe you were still the same boy who'd held my hand and tried to count the stars.
"I wanted to believe, in some way, that you were still mine. The one good thing I'd had in my life.
"By the time I came to understand how foolish I'd been, years had passed. I was too embarrassed, too ashamed by then. I told myself it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. You didn't need me popping back into your life."
I wave my hand around. "Look at all you've accomplished. Everything you'd dreamed of. Wealthy. Famous. Respected.
"Me coming back would've only made a mess of things. Why would you want to have any connection to a criminal?"
He shakes his head, disappointedly. "You don't get it, do you?"
"What?"
"If you'd come back and told me what you've just told me, I wouldn't have cared. Your past was your past. And by the time we'd met, you'd left it behind."
"Still—"
"Stop." He steps closer, looks down into my eyes. His voice is strong, firm, brooking no-nonsense.
"Jenny, you're not what you were. You are what you are."
He gestures towards my taxi. "Honest. Hard-working.
"Why on earth would I have been embarrassed to have had someone like that at my side?"
My heart pounds loud in my ears. Is he trying to tell me that he would want me at his side even now?
But, even as those thoughts run riot in my head, my mouth seems to have a mind of its own.
"But you're so successful..."
He cuts me off again, not unkindly.
"All this," he waves his hand around, "means almost nothing to me. At one time I thought this life…the stuff...the fame…would make me happy. Fulfilled.
"But it doesn't."
He drops his voice, gently asks, "And you know why?"
I tremble. Hoping. Fearing.
I'm barely able to get out the words. "No, I don't."
"Because you weren't here to share it."
A startled, "Oh!" escapes before I'm able to cover my mouth.
"I know that sounds horribly clichéd, but it doesn't make it any less true."
He pauses. "I never told you outright, but when I used to talk about my dreams, you were the one I always pictured beside me. It was always us. Equal partners. Together. That's what drove me."
He lets a long, sad breath. "I should've never assumed you knew that. Maybe if I'd told you, you would've come back."
Would I? Or would I've still been too afraid? Too ashamed? I don't know.
"It took me years to figure it out. In the end, things don't mean anything."
He goes on, looking me straight in the eye. "People, people you love, mean everything."
Is he implying that we might still have a now, not just a then?
Or is he trying to tell me it's too late?
My sudden tears mix with the rainwater on my cheeks. "I did love you, Chuck. Please believe me."
He shrugs. "I believe you did, but that doesn't mean much, does it? My mom loved me, then she left. My father loved me, then he left, too."
"What's the saying? Three strikes and you're out. You were my third strike, Jenny."
And just like that, all the hopefulness I'd felt is swept away.
I feel myself deflate, my shoulders sagging.
His head bowed, he quietly, resignedly adds, "You retired me. For good, I think. I don't know if I have what it takes to step up to the plate again. I'm not sure I ever did."
Abrupt anger replaces my contrition. I step closer, look up into his face. "So you're giving up? On life?
"On love?"
He scoffs, tiredly. "You're one to talk. It doesn't look like that you have anyone, either."
That stings. A few men had drifted in and out of my nomadic existence, but nothing even remotely serious had resulted from those brief encounters. Still, for Chuck to sense that so easily, so quickly…hurts.
"No, I don't. And you know why?"
His reply is biting. "No, why don't you tell me?"
I move closer, poke him in the chest with my finger, look up into his face. I'm practically yelling at him. "Because none of them were you, Chuck! If I couldn't have you, I wanted someone as much like you as possible. But I never found him. After years of searching, I finally gave up because I realized that Chuck Bartowski was unique."
His face only inches from mine, he retorts, loudly, "And I've been looking for someone like you! But I never found her, either!"
We stare at each other for a long second or two, panting, sudden realization flooding over us.
I'm not sure how it happens, but in the very next moment, I'm kissing him.
Fervently. Desperately.
Or he's kissing me.
Fervently. Desperately.
I'm not sure which.
Both, perhaps.
I don't care.
All I know is I don't want it to end.
I feel something stir within my heart, fight its way to the surface.
Joy.
A joy I'd resigned myself to never feeling again. A joy that I believed I never deserved to feel again.
I bask in it for what seems like hours. We cling to each other, my arms tight around his neck, his drawing me close, so close, against him. Until, needing breath, we draw ever so slightly apart.
He murmurs in my ear, "Jenny, Jenny..."
With those words, I'm jolted back to reality.
As much as I want to, I can't just leap into his arms and let events take their course. I can't pretend that the years that have flowed past us mean nothing. I can't expect an admittedly amazing, passionate kiss to obscure the fact that we're no longer who we were.
I'm impelled to play devil's advocate. I just hope he'll understand.
I step back, look into his eyes. "Chuck, I'm not Jenny Burton anymore. I'm Sarah Walker. I've been her longer than anyone else I've ever been. And it's not just the name. I'm not the same person that you may have frozen in your mind, like a photograph."
He returns my look, nods thoughtfully. "I understand that that people aren't static. Everyday we're at least a little different than we were the day before. That kind of stuff adds up over the years."
"Exactly. What if..."
When I don't go on after a few seconds, he asks, "What if, what?"
I rush out the words. "What if you find you don't like Sarah Walker? That too much about me has changed?"
He gives me a smile, albeit a smaller, briefer version of the one he'd reserved for me all those years ago. It's one I'd thought I'd never see again.
"You were here for that kiss, right?"
I nod, blushing. Yes, I was. Wholly there.
Still.
"But what if you were kissing a memory, not me? Jenny not Sarah?"
I can see him mulling that over. "I think I see what you're getting at. But even If I was, how would I know?"
"We need to get…reacquainted…with each other. The people we are now. We can't move forward if we don't. Not really."
"We can't live in the past."
"Not if we want a chance for a future, no."
"I agree.
"But, for the record, I believe, deep down, you're still the same beautiful girl you were back then."
I shake my head. "I wasn't beautiful, Chuck."
He looks into my eyes, quietly says, "You were to me. Beautiful in every way that really counted.
"Only now, your outside has caught up with your inside."
I duck my head, flushing at his praise.
I look back up into his eyes. "And part of me believes that, deep down, you're still the same amazing boy I knew back then. But—"
"—we need to be sure. Gotcha."
I let out a breath. "Yes."
"But, Sarah, at the same time, let's not minimize what happened here tonight. I have to believe that us meeting this way and that kiss has to mean something." He grips my shoulders as his eyes search my face. "Tell me you don't feel the same."
I'm unable to contradict him. Silence is my reply.
"See? I've never believed in fate, but what are the chances that we'd run into each after all these years?"
I agree. "Slim to none, Chuck."
"And yet here we are. Both unentangled. Both unencumbered. Both ready to move forward."
"Yes, but I'm not sure where we go from here."
"I've got a suggestion."
"What?"
He grins, crookedly. "I think we need to take a drive."
He's right, of course. I don't think I ever felt closer to him than during those times he sat beside me in the passenger seat and we talked.
"Where?"
But even as I ask, I know where.
Our spot. Our place.
"The beach?"
"Yes."
"Chuck, that's almost five hundred miles from here!"
"I know. But that'll give us plenty of time to talk. Right?"
I look at my car, calculating. "That'll be a seven or eight-hour drive."
He inclines his head toward the Golf. "In that, yes. But less in this."
He walks over to a tarp-covered vehicle and yanks the cover off.
A gleaming Porsche 911 Cabriolet is revealed. Yellow with a black interior. Just like my little car.
"A couple of years ago, I came across this one. It's the same year as your Golf. I recalled that you liked to pretend you were driving a Porsche. So I bought it." He looks embarrassed. "There are some perks to having money."
He astounds me. I'd told him only once, in passing, about my little fantasy. Yet he'd remembered.
"It reminded me of you." He pauses, looking at the car. "I've never driven it." He shrugs, looks back at me. "I guess I was…waiting. Hoping."
I don't know how to reply to that.
Perhaps he takes that as some sort of uncertainty for his next words are reassuring.
"If you're wondering if it's drivable, I have someone from the dealership come every few months and check it out. They do whatever's needed to make sure it's good."
"No, Chuck. I wasn't worried about that. I'm just amazed you remembered after all this time."
Softly, he replies. "Forgetting just didn't seem to work. And I tried really hard."
I swallow heavily. "I did too, Chuck."
He gives himself a shake. "Well, that's behind us now. Onward and upward, as they say. Shall we get going?"
I hesitate. "Chuck, as much as I want to, I'm not sure I can just leave."
"Why not?"
"I have a job. Bills to pay. My rent is overdue."
I don't say it.
I'm not like you. Wealthy. Independent.
But he senses my thoughts somehow. Perhaps my face gives me away.
"Sarah, I remember what it was like, living hand to mouth. Will you let me help you?"
I shake my head. "I don't know…"
"Let me ask you this. If our situations were reversed, would you hesitate, even for a second, to offer me assistance?"
My reply is immediate, no thought required. "No, of course not."
"Please let me do the same for you. The best thing about having all this money is that I'm able to help people who're going through a rough time in their lives. Most of them I don't even know.
"And now I have the chance to help someone I do know. Someone…someone I care for."
He pleads. "Please let me."
I can't resist the look in his eyes. Against my better judgment, I nod. "OK."
"Thank you."
He glances at my taxi. "I use your company's limo service. Let's start there."
He pulls out his phone. Speed dials a number. Listens for a few seconds.
"Hi, Mark. My name's Charles Carmichael. My customer number is 76-4532. You want to punch that in for me?"
A few moments pass before Mark responds. I can't exactly hear Mark's words, but his tone is no longer lackadaisical. I can visualize our night manager sitting up straight in his chair.
"Here's what I need you to do for me, Mark. I'm at my home address. I need you to send someone to come and pick up taxi number…" Chuck looks at me. I give him the number, which he repeats into his phone.
Chuck listens for a second. "No, it's working properly. You can bill me for the expenses." He listens again. "No, Sarah's fine. Would you like to speak with her?" Pause. "OK, here she is."
He hands me the phone, then takes a few steps away to give me some privacy.
Mark's worried. "Sarah, you OK?"
"Yes, Mark, I'm fine. But I won't be going to work tomorrow. Please tell George I'm taking some time off."
"How long?"
I look at Chuck waiting patiently, smiling at me.
"I'm not completely certain, but probably quite a while."
"George won't like that. I don't think he'll keep your position open."
I take a deep breath. "I understand. If I don't come back, please pass along my goodbyes to everyone."
"I will." He pauses. "What's happened, Sarah? You sound happy and worried all at the same time."
I hesitate before replying, "I ran into someone…important…from my past. I need to see where it'll go from here."
There's silence for a few seconds. Mark puts the pieces together. "Charles Carmichael? You knew him before?"
"No, the man I knew was named Chuck. But I'm looking forward to getting to know Charles."
Mark sounds confused. "Huh?"
"That's all I can say at the moment. Take care of yourself. Bye."
I see Chuck gesturing to give him the phone.
"Hold on, Mark. Mr. Carmichael would like to say something."
I hand over the phone. "Mark, I also need you to inform your boss that I'm hiring Sarah Walker as my personal driver until further notice. You can bill $1000 to my account. Daily. Since she'll still be working for you, it's understood that Miss Walker's regular position will remain open if she chooses to return to work. That sound good?"
I hear a choking noise from Mark.
"Good. My PA will contact your company tomorrow to finalize the details."
Chuck looks at me. "Next?"
"The rent on my room is due."
"OK. We can deal with that.
"Mildred."
An older female voice, nuanced, human-sounding, but with just enough of a tone to know it's computer-generated, responds, "Yes, Mr. Carmichael?"
"Mildred, the next voice you'll hear is that of Miss Sarah Walker. I authorize that she is to have full access to your features."
"Yes, Mr. Carmichael."
I'm bewildered, not sure what to say.
Chuck leans in, whispers, "Just say hello."
"Hello…Mildred.
"Good evening, Miss Walker. How may I help you?"
Chuck whispers again. "Please tell her the name and address of your landlord. And how much your rent is."
I do.
Mildred replies, "Thank you, Miss Walker. What would you like me to do with that information?"
I look at Chuck. He replies.
"Mildred, I want you to remind my PA tomorrow morning to send a cheque to this man to cover the rent for Sarah's room for the next three months."
"Consider it done, Mr. Carmichael."
There's an almost human-like pause. "As an aside, you should know that the person in question is a very bad man. He's been charged with tax fraud and sexual battery. I've found information that would aid the authorities in their prosecution. Would you like me to pass it on to the appropriate individuals?"
Chuck looks at me, raises an eyebrow. I nod. Gleefully.
Schadenfreude never felt so good.
"Yes, please do so."
"Done. Will there be anything else, Mr. Carmichael?"
"Yes. You heard my conversation with the limo company?"
"Yes, sir."
"Please make sure my PA carries through with the arrangement I made."
"Yes, sir. Anything else?"
"No. However, I'll be off the grid for a couple of days. Only contact me if you judge matters to be urgent."
"Certainly, sir. The rain will be letting up within the next few minutes, so your drive to San Diego should be enjoyable."
"Yes, thank you."
"I hope you'll have a good time. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Miss Walker."
"Goodnight, Mildred."
I'm staring, mouth agape. "What the hell was that?"
"That? That's my current version of the Intersect. An AI I've been working on."
"No, I sorta got that, but how did it—she—know about San Diego?"
He shrugs. "I'd forgotten I searched for you using Sarah Walker back then. With all the data I'd inputted, she put two and two together. Figured out who you were and then overheard we were going for a drive."
"She's that smart?"
I hear the pride in his voice. "Yeah."
"Why haven't I heard of her before?"
"Not out on the market yet. I'm still working on it."
"Amazing. She reminds me of you. Always making connections, brilliant."
He blushes. "Thanks."
"I have to ask, though."
"Yes?"
"Why does she call you sir or Mr. Carmichael? I wouldn't have thought you'd insist on such formality."
He chuckles. "It's not me. She decided that would be the correct way to address me as her boss. I told her she could just call me Charles or Chuck, but she wouldn't hear of it. I gave up trying to convince her otherwise."
He glances at his watch. "We should get going." He smirks. "I think we can get there by dawn with the way you drive."
I give him a flat look but he doesn't back down. "Chuck, I can't leave this way. I'm soaked. Besides messing up the leather seats, it would make for a very uncomfortable trip. I'll have to stop at my place to change and pick up some things."
"I've got you covered. May I borrow your keys, please?"
I hand them over, mystified.
He walks over to my Golf, opens the trunk and pulls out a large gym bag.
Turning to me, he says, "You left your—"
"—go-bag in the car." In the rush to leave San Diego, I'd totally forgotten about that one. I'd used the one I'd stored at our house, instead.
"But the clothes will be all musty. And the…personal…stuff will be out of date."
He looks embarrassed again. "I had the clothes cleaned and pressed every year or so. And I replaced the stuff," he pauses and looks away, "even the…feminine stuff…when it was necessary."
I grin at him. "Even that 'stuff', huh?"
"Yeah. Wasn't the first time I had to make that kind of purchase. Ellie made sure of that."
"Maybe the clothes won't fit me anymore, Chuck."
He steps back, looks me up and down. There's the slightest hint of smolder in his gaze.
I feel a sudden warmth flood my cheeks.
"I don't think there'll be a problem." He takes my hand and, much more gently this time, leads me towards the door at the back of the garage. We go through and turns to face me as he lets go of my hand.
He points to a door on my left. "That's a bathroom you can use to dry off and change." He looks uncertain. "At least, I think it's a bathroom."
He opens the door, looks inside. "Yep."
"You don't know all the rooms in your own house?"
He blushes. "I'll let you in on a little secret. I hate this place. It's pretentious and way too big for a single person. I only bought it because my financial adviser said it was a good investment. I'm gonna let it go. It's not me."
"I agree."
"I'm gonna run upstairs and change. I'll be back down in ten."
He turns to walk towards the door.
"Chuck?"
He turns back.
"Yes?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Helping me this way. With my job and my place.
"Sarah, every single, last part of me hopes that we can work this out between us."
He pauses to take a deep breath. "But if it doesn't, I don't want you to feel trapped. I want you to know that you have a way out."
I blink away the tears. "Thank you, Chuck."
"It's the least I could do."
He looks at me for a few seconds, seeming to gather his courage.
"May I ask you something? Something personal?"
His request makes me feel a little apprehensive, but he's earned some trust from me.
"Sure. Go ahead."
"You've been punishing yourself, haven't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Driving a cab when you could be doing so much more. I know it's honest work and that's not something to be disparaged. Especially given what you've told me about your past tonight.
"But you're brilliant, intelligent, beautiful. You deserve so much more."
I blush once again. "I don't know about the deserve part, but you're right. I have been punishing myself."
"Why, in god's name?"
"I helped my dad hurt a lot of people. Helped him take away their future."
He's angry. "That wasn't your fault! You were too young to know any better. And when you figured it out, you stopped."
It's pure Chuck. Angry on my behalf, doing his best to make me feel better about myself.
I reply, "You're right. And I'm trying to put it behind me."
"Good."
"But there's something else. I..."
He moves closer, asks gently, "What is it?"
I find it hard to look him in the eye, but I do it anyway. "I threw away the best thing in my life. You. Us. I wasted all the years we could've been with each other. And I made you unhappy."
I shrug, wave vaguely toward my taxi sitting in the rain. "This is all I deserved."
He steps even closer, takes my hands in his. "Sarah, would it help if said I forgive you?"
"But you were so angry with me in the cab."
"I was. I guess I'd been holding it in for a very long time."
He takes a deep breath. "But I was wrong. I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me.
"Being bitter about the past accomplishes nothing. Less than nothing. It can't be changed."
He grips my hands just a little tighter. "And constantly reminding ourselves of our past mistakes, beating ourselves up over and over again, only serves to stop us from moving forward.
"At some point, we all need to leave the guilt behind."
I blink back my tears. "Yes, you're right."
He looks at me intently for a few seconds, then says, "Sarah, this is our second chance to get it right. I feel it in my heart.
"Please, tell me you feel the same."
His eyes, hopeful, lock onto mine.
I nod slowly. "Yes, Chuck, I do."
He leans in, kisses me softly, and much too briefly, on the lips.
He releases my hands. "I'm going upstairs to change now. How much time will you need?"
"That depends." I pull off my knit cap. My hair tumbles out. I comb my fingers through it, give my head a shake.
"It's pretty dry, so I shouldn't need more…"
He's staring at me. Mouth agape.
"What? Is there something wrong with my hair?"
He seems to have trouble finding words. "No. No, not at all. It's just that was a surprise is all." He clears his throat. "It's very…attractive."
I can't help but be pleased by his reaction. "Even when it's all messy?"
His reply is earnest, immediate. "Yes. Very much so."
He takes a breath. "I should go up and change now." He stops, scratches his head. "I keep saying that, don't I?"
I smile. "Yeah, you do."
"And yet I'm still here."
"Yeah, you are."
I reach up, grasp his shoulders and gently turn him around. I give him a little shove toward the door at the end of the hallway.
"Go. I'll see you in ten."
"OK. Ten." He walks away, but just before he goes through the doorway, he turns and gives me his nose-crinkling smile. Then he's gone.
I pick up my go-bag and go into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I'm not taking any chances that he might come down early and catch me halfway through my preparations. If he did, we might not take our road trip.
And we need to.
I untie my boots and remove them along with the damp socks. Then I strip off my wet clothes, including the army surplus canvas jacket I'd been wearing. I make sure to grab the $100 bill from my plaid shirt. I hang the clothes over the shower door. My underwear isn't wet so I leave it on.
I towel off my hair. Looking in the bag, I find a pair of comfortable looking jeans. I slip them on.
Chuck was right. They still fit me. I'm pleased about that. I search around in the bag and find a comfy looking cable knit sweater, white, with a high neckline. I'd always liked that sweater. It feels good when I pull in over my head and settle it around me.
Digging down, I find a pair of shoes. Orange, low-top Chucks. I'd forgotten I'd ever owned them. No good in the rain, but Mildred said it will have stopped by now.
I'll take her at her word. I sit down on the closed toilet and put them on. They seem so light in comparison to the heavy boots I'd been wearing.
For that matter, everything I've changed into seems less weighty than what I'd been wearing.
I feel…unburdened.
The weariness that'd plagued me earlier has fled, replaced by a strange energy.
I stand up, pull a thin jacket out of the bag and put it on.
Looking in the mirror, I check out my appearance.
The hair is a little disheveled, but not enough to worry about. Besides, it's gonna get tossed around if we drive with the top down as I intend.
In any case, Chuck seems to like it.
A lot.
I smile at the memory.
I apply a little bit of lipstick and close up the bag.
I'm ready.
I pick up the bag and open the door just in time to see him coming from the other end of the hallway. A soft-sided overnight bag in his hand.
He's wearing a dark red button-down shirt, jeans and a nice black, leather jacket. And his hi-top black Chucks. The same as I remembered.
His hair looks dryer, but wild, the curls sticking up every which way.
He notices my glance. "I was supposed to get a haircut last week, but I was busy."
"No problem on my end. Looks just fine to me."
He smiles. "Thanks.
He gives me a quick once-over. "You look great."
"What? These old things?"
"Literally true in this case." He chuckles.
He gestures for me to go first. He follows as I walk into the garage and over to the Porsche.
He tosses the keys to me. I open the trunk and put my bag inside. He does the same with his. He closes the lid.
We both settle into our seats and fasten our seatbelts.
He calls out, "Open the Porsche garage door, Mildred."
"I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that."
I'm confused. "What the…"
He rolls his eyes, sighs. "Her idea of a joke. Give it a few seconds."
I hear what sounds suspiciously like a chortle, then the door opens in front of us.
Mildred was right. The rain has stopped. We can leave the top down.
"Done, sir. Shall I close both doors after you leave?'
"Yes, please. And activate the security system."
"I will. I hope your journey proves successful. For both of you."
I look at Chuck. He gives me a tiny nod. I reply, "Thank you, Mildred. I think it will."
"Goodnight, Miss Walker. Goodnight, sir."
I start up the engine. Tap the accelerator a couple of times. I revel in the throaty growl. I slowly pull out of the garage and head toward the gate, leaving my old car and the taxi behind us.
It suddenly strikes me that yellow doesn't have to mean cowardice.
It can also be the color of optimism, of happiness.
The sunny beginning of a new day.
I guess it's what you make of it.
Like life.
I look up to the sky. He does the same.
The clouds have parted.
We can both see the stars once again.
I'm grinning like an idiot.
I turn to him and ask, "Ready?"
Chuck grins back. "Absolutely."
I pop the clutch and stomp on the accelerator.
One moment we're still and the next we're flying down the road toward our destination.
He turns on the radio.
A song I remember thunders from the speakers.
I glance at him. He glances back, smiles as he starts to sing along, tapping out the beat on his thigh.
I join him, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel.
Soon, we're both bellowing at the top of our lungs.
Life is a highway
I wanna ride it all night long
If you're going my way
I wanna drive it all night long
There was a distance between you and I
A misunderstanding once
But now we look it in the eye
And that's exactly what we do.
The End.
—
A/N: Thank you for reading.
The second song is, of course, that great driving tune, "Life Is A Highway" by Tom Cochrane. (Check out the official video. It features a tall blonde and a curly-haired haired man driving a convertible. What could be more perfect?)
PS If you're a Jane Austen fan, check out Zettel's wonderful "Tides of Bath." I think you'll find yourself believing you're reading her words. It's that good.