"Vic."
His voice is gravely and she understands by the tone that he may be concerned. Concerned enough not to hang-up the phone.
"I hate you."
She sniffs and slurs slightly but her words are clear enough for him to understand that's not what she is really saying.
"Where are you?"
"I know where I am."
"No, Vic, where are you?"
"You already know."
He does.
The silence between them emulates the gulf that has formed the past months. It is invisible to the untrained eye but it is here like an undetectable halon gas sucking the life blood out of whatever this is between them.
"Vic, let me come to you."
"It's too late."
"Don't say that."
She could hear the floorboard squeak beneath his feet and imagines his weight distributing equally between his hips.
Her cheek brushes the cell phone and he presses his ear to hear her but it is too late. The absence of the dial tone stalls his response but he pushes his heel into his boot and the rest is muscle memory as he grabs his rifle and places his hat on his head. The basic wood slab serves its purpose as a makeshift door. The dim lights of the beat up Bronco catch the white paint.
She's not drunk but she knows she can't drive and when his lights flash across the passenger side of her truck for a moment she thinks he will fire her and then a slight panic that he just might arrest her. She would deserve it for being so stupid she thinks and it would confirm that he really is a dick.
The light cuts, he coasts to a stop, and in the stillness of the country air she can hear the melodic metal click of his door shutting closed. He lifts the fiberglass handle and never thinks to rap his broad knuckle on the glass. It's a reminder of everything he has taken for granted as he pushes the door open causing the hinges to groan under the stretch of his wingspan.
He doesn't stammer. He doesn't stutter. He stands silently soaking her in taking stock of all he's accountable for.
Vic turns her head and flashes her golden eyes in his direction and despite the literal ache inside of her chest she notices how beautiful he is and that makes the ache deeper. A different kind of ache. She blinks. He blinks back.
Walt slides his hip forward and folds his legs into the truck and the click of the door is familiar but it's not the same. None of it is the same.
"You can go back to your harem." She says.
His jaw isn't quite set when he says, "Come on, Vic."
"You fucking come on." Her fingers wrap around the steering wheel. "I didn't invite you into my truck."
"You can't drive."
"Technically, I can."
He turns and flexes his jaw. He notices how beautiful she is in the yellow half-moon and it infuriates him. She knows the code to bypass the alarm that sends him into an emotional panic.
Without warning he gently tugs the bottle out of her hand and she's pretty sure he leaves his hand to linger on hers on purpose. He takes a long deep drink and shakes his head as liquid amber burns down his throat.
"You should have wiped it clean."
His eyes squint like he's staring into the sun, "Why?"
"You don't want my cooties."
"You have cooties?" His voice is temporarily raspy from the whiskey and a little flirty like he's testing the waters after a years long drought.
"You act like I do."
"Maybe I do."
He looks at the bottle and tilts it in his hand, his thumb rubs the label, "We've shared a bottle before. I'm not worried."
"I'm sure she does."
"She doesn't know."
She feels oddly relieved and repulsed at the same time.
"She doesn't know you have cooties, Vic." His lips part and curl and now she is sure he is flirting.
"Fuck you."
He takes another swallow. He's trying to catch-up. He's been trying for four years. He shoves the bottle between his legs and says, "I don't know how to explain."
"Good, cause I don't want to hear your bullshit." Her hand is up directing his words elsewhere.
He wraps her fingers in his and leans toward her, past the mile of cold sea between them, his lips land on hers for a gently foggy moment and he whispers in her wet mouth, "It's not bullshit." She can taste the sweet alcohol on his lips and he searches for the bitterness of her whiskey laden tongue. He nearly faints in her light. It's swift and it's hard like he always knew it would be and his stomach lurches like a rollercoaster before she shoves him away.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He wishes she had slapped him instead. It would have hurt less. They sit in silence long enough for normalcy to return.
"I'll go make some coffee."
She nods.
The rocks push deeper into the dirt under his weight. His soul is bloated with decision. The beat up faded green thermos hangs on to remnants of the Colt sticker.
"Thanks." She says as he places the thermos and a sandwich wrapped in a paper towel on top of the plaid blanket he brought for her.
"It's not one of those blankets." He points his long finger toward the bounty he's laid before her.
She notices his hat tilt before he steps back but this time she doesn't wait for him.
"Close the door, Walt."
He turns and she hears the metal click to the Bronco. He doesn't drive away. He stays the night parked next to her in front of his cabin.