Come As You Are (10 page)

I dreamed I was in a carriage. Like a horse-and-buggy carriage, the movement soothing and the sound of the horse’s feet repetitive in a good way. I squirmed around, the bump in the seat driving me crazy. What kind of carriage had a bump in it? A bump like the backseat of my Corolla.

I gradually awakened to realize I was not in a carriage pulled by horses, but in the safety of my little car. The odd thing? The car was moving.

I tossed my coat aside and sat up. Streetlights flashed by, and I heard the sound of shifting gears. Through the windshield I saw a winch on the back of a flatbed and lettering that said Bob’s Tow Service. I sat up straighter and looked out the side window. My car was sitting on the back platform of a tow truck, and we were tooling down I-94.

What the?

I lunged between the front seats and pounded on the horn. I thought I heard a weak peep. I tried a second time. Nothing. The fob hadn’t worked either. Windows wouldn’t go down. Battery dead.

I tried waving my arms, hoping the driver might see me in the mirror. Futile. I finally settled back and enjoyed the ride while taking Instagram photos with my phone. Had to document this crazy shit.

It didn’t take long to get to the impound lot because there was very little traffic. Once the truck came to a stop I bailed out on the metal platform at the same time the driver climbed from the cab. He looked really surprised to see me.

“You should check to make sure nobody is in a car before you tow it,” I told him as I stuffed my arms into my heavy coat, grabbed the straps of my backpack, and jumped to the ground.

“I thought I checked.”

“Not very well.”

“This car has been on the tow list for the past two weeks. I was trying to cut you some slack but I couldn’t let it sit there any longer. Somebody kept calling about it.”

That would have been the old lady next door who didn’t like anybody parking in front of her house.

He went back to the cab and returned with a sheet of paper. “Here’s the number for information on getting your car released. The sooner you get it out the less it’ll cost you. Flat towing fee, plus daily storage of eighteen bucks.”

I almost said thanks as I took the sheet and stuffed it into a zippered side pocket of my coat. I didn’t see a point in telling him I wouldn’t be back.

I glanced at the car and felt a pang of sorrow. I was going to miss her. And to go this way… it felt like I’d just taken a beloved pet to the pound.

I walked through the gate and the driver swung it shut, locking it after me.

Where the hell was I?

I found a street sign. Colfax Avenue. I could see enough of the skyline to know I was north of downtown Minneapolis. Which meant I was eight or nine miles from Rose’s. I wasn’t familiar with this area of town, and no buses would be running right now. And anyway it was super industrial. Probably didn’t get much bus traffic, if any. Wasn’t this where people were always getting murdered? I might think about death a lot and I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I sure as hell didn’t want to get killed standing on a street corner.

I pulled out my phone and contemplated the short list of people I could call. Rose. Taylor, who didn’t have a car. Then there was Ian.

I stared at the screen, mentally braced myself, and called him.

“Hello?” came his groggy response. I imagined the way he’d looked in my bed, confused and hair all over the place. Adorable.

“Are you…um, busy?”

He breathed deeply, struggling to collect himself. He made that dude sound that girls don’t make, the sound where they inhale deeply while talking. “At three-thirty? Nah.”

“Did I wake you?” Of course.

“Did you rethink that date invitation?”

“I might need a ride.”

“You in trouble?” Now he sounded alert, and I imagined him sitting up straighter.

“Not trouble. I’m at the impound lot in Minneapolis.”

“Impound lot? I didn’t think you had a car.”

“The whole thing is a long story. Kinda funny. Like something I’ll laugh about later.”

“Hold that laughter. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I gave him the location, then disconnected. While I waited I went through my photos, posting the towing fiasco to Instagram and Facebook.

A shady black Cadillac, circa 1990, drove past going really slow. It turned around and headed back. What should I do if it stopped? Maybe they just wanted to rob me, not kill me. I’d give them my laptop and phone and run down an alley or climb the fence into the impound lot.

You’re always supposed to walk with purpose, but I don’t think I’d ever heard anything about standing with purpose. And I really didn’t want to ditch my backpack or phone. I’d already lost my car, and who the hell knew if my bike would be there when I stopped to get it.

The beater was almost even with me when I heard the sound of another engine. Coming around the corner was Ian’s van. He fast-braked in front of me and threw open the passenger door while the shady car sped up and continued down the street. As I clambered in, Ian grabbed my pack and put it between the bucket seats. I slammed the door and we took off.

“I saw your Instagram post so I kind of get what’s so funny but I don’t get how it happened.”

He followed me on Instagram?

“How did you end up in the car when it was being towed?”

He’d probably beat the crap out of the hairy, smelly dude if I told him what happened, and I couldn’t deal with more drama tonight. “I fell asleep in the car and it got towed.”

“That’s not the whole story.”

“It’s not, but I don’t want to get into it right now.” So I lightened the conversation. “You should have seen the look on the tow-truck driver’s face when I stepped out of the car.” I laughed, remembering.

“He probably sees some weird stuff. And most of the people he deals with are pissed off as hell. Wouldn’t want his job.” He turned onto I-94 East, heading back through Lowry Tunnel and past the cathedral. “Where to?” he asked, probably assuming I wanted a lift to the rental house. I hadn’t really thought past asking for a ride.

“Not my place.” If Rose was home I could sleep on her couch, but there was good chance she wouldn’t be back yet. “There’s a party going on and I can’t handle that now.” Two people could be called a party, right? Party of two?

“My couch?”

“Yeah.” And to make the situation less awkward, I came up with a logical reason for a visit. “I could check your hand.” I eyed the nasty gauze. “And re-bandage it.”

He seemed cool with that and five minutes later we arrived at our destination.

“I see the window hasn’t been fixed,” I said as we stepped in the back door. He’d boarded it up with plywood.

“Somebody’s supposed to come in two days. That’s good, because—” He stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“People coming to look at the house? Has anybody been interested?”

“Yeah. A few.”

I nodded. “Good.”

On the table where I’d left everything were the homecare supplies. Gauze and peroxide and tape. “Have you changed the bandage at all?”

“I was afraid I wouldn’t get it wrapped back up. And I’m not sure I want to see it.”

I made an exasperated sound, turned on the light above the table and sat down, pointing to the chair next to mine. He took the seat and extended his hand, fingers curled, palm up. I carefully removed the tape, then unwrapped the gauze. I wasn’t sure how the stitches were supposed to look. The cut was red, but not oozing or anything. I opened the peroxide, grabbed a towel, put it under his hand, and poured the clear liquid over it. He made a face but didn’t say anything. I patted his hand dry, then put fresh gauze around it, taping it securely.

“There.” I surveyed my work. “You should change that every day.”

“I know. I will.”

He was staring at me in this wistful way that hurt my heart, maybe even broke my heart.

“I want to say stuff to you,” he said, “but I won’t. Because I’m afraid anything I say will send you running out the door.”

“Probably true.”

He picked up my hand with his uninjured one. “I’m just glad you called me. You can always call me. That will never change.”

It seemed like he was telling me goodbye, and I sensed this new resolution about him, like somebody who’d come to a decision and was glad the process was over, but maybe not happy about the outcome.

“You’re going to find out soon enough,” he said. His thumb stroked the back of my hand. This
was
goodbye. “I got an offer on the house two days after it was listed. And I accepted it. We close in a week.”

My brain stopped. And started. And stopped. “A week? That’s so fast. I thought that kind of thing took months.”

“Me too, but I guess the market is good right now. I actually had three offers, but the one I took wanted an early close. That’s why I decided on it. To get it over with.”

“A week… Wow. And after that?”

“I’m going back to Berkeley.”

Back to California. Why did that make my throat tight? Why did that make my eyes sting? “I’ll miss you.” The words popped out before I could stop them, surprising me as much as him.

“You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.” He said it with such conviction that I almost believed him. So weird, because I’d already told him goodbye before. Back when I dumped him. When
I
left
him
. But it was different being the one left behind. A lot different.

“Do you have a place in Berkeley?” I asked, my voice sounding strange.

“An apartment. When I came here I didn’t think I’d be staying so long.”

“No.”

I shouldn’t care. I didn’t want to care. At the same time I wanted to turn back the clock to the day we painted the living room yellow. The day we’d first had sex. Made love. Whatever it was. It had been so perfect. That day had been so perfect.

I couldn’t help myself. I was giving him that look. A look I’d given him a lot over our short period of bliss. He’d seen it enough to recognize it.

I wondered if he had a girl back there. In California. I’ll bet he did. Of course he did.

I got to my feet. I turned off the light so we weren’t onstage. He still held my hand. I shifted my fingers so I was grasping his, and I pulled him toward the living room and the couch. “Not upstairs.”

“I know.”

An odd response, but I didn’t allow myself to dwell on it. Instead, I was careful of his hand as I helped him undress—until he was naked and I was naked, and then I pushed him back on the sofa, following him down. Forgetting about his injury he tried to grab my arm, then let out a surprised gasp of pain.

“I’ll do everything,” I told him. “You just lie here.”

His breath caught in sweet anticipation. I put my face against his neck and inhaled the clean scent of him. I kissed his mouth, and he didn’t taste like cigarettes and stale beer.

“You taste like lavender,” he whispered.

I worked my knee between his hip and the couch, and then I lowered myself onto him, to hell with foreplay. I’d missed him. I needed him to erase it all for me again with this new and fresh and real love. Love?
Love
?

Once he was buried deep inside me, I shushed him and let the moment stretch out in slow motion, one frame at a time. And in my head music played, soft, sad, one note after one note.

There was no mad ending, no building crescendo that ended in a crash. This was a lullaby. A sweet and tender lullaby. And all the more astounding? It was performed by me. Orchestrated by me.

And then we both fell asleep. I fought it, and he fought it, but we drifted off, me on top of him, his good hand embracing me. I woke up to find that we were still together, and he was still inside me. I moved my hips, and I felt him come to life, and the sweet goodbye continued.

Later, after he’d fallen into a real sleep, I got up and covered him with a blanket, then I slipped on my clothes. In my backpack I found my lavender lip balm. I left it on the kitchen table, next to the homecare supplies. Maybe when he got back to California he’d use it and think of me.

“Molly?” came Ian’s voice from the other room.

Damn. I didn’t want to say goodbye. Not the word. And I didn’t want to cry. I was afraid I would cry.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“I can give you a ride.”

“That’s okay.”

Silence, then, “I understand.”

And I think he
did
understand, and that’s what hurt. I think he was the only person who’d ever understand me.

“Can you wait a minute?”

I heard him moving around. I heard the sound of jeans slipping over skin, and the jingle of a belt bucket. He appeared in the doorway buttoning his thin plaid shirt, looking familiar and endearing.

I swallowed.

“I wanted to talk to you for just a minute.” He looked uncomfortable. “I can make coffee.”

“No, I need to go.”

He nodded. “Just a few minutes. Come into the living room.”

I put down my backpack and returned to the living room. I looked at the couch, and then I chose to curl into the stuffed chair we’d picked up at Goodwill.

He sat on the couch and cleared his throat. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped as well as he could clasp them, he looked down at the floor, getting up the nerve to say whatever it was he was preparing to say. For a second I almost wondered if he was going to propose, then I realized how ridiculous that was.

He finally looked at me. Solidly, without any hesitation or doubt. “I know about you.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I figured it out.”

No. He couldn’t be talking about what I thought he was talking about.

“Why you behaved the way you did the day of your dad’s funeral. Why you didn’t care if I sold the house.”

I wanted him to stop. Just stop.

“And why you wouldn’t sleep in my room. Or rather, your father’s room.”

The words he’d spoken earlier came back to me:
I know.
It had seemed an odd response, but now it made sense. A sense I didn’t want it to make.

I uncurled myself and got to my feet. I wanted to clap my hands over my ears, but all I could do was stare in horror at Ian’s mouth as he said the things I didn’t want him to say. The things I didn’t want him to know.