Desert Crossing (13 page)

He still didn't move. I kept watching his profile for any sign that he heard me. I breathed his thick, sweet smell, the smell of his hair and his neck and his sleeping self, all mixed together. I put my hand on his chest to feel the thudding of his heart.

And then he stirred, shifted slightly, turning toward me. One hand reached sleepily for me, running over my body, feeling me through my T-shirt. I curled against him. He was touching me, his hands warm, and I thought—in the way your body knows things that your mind will only guess—
he's done this lots of times.

“Kit,” I said again.

“What?” His voice was soft. “What are you doing in here?”

“I want to leave.” I touched his face. “I want to go to Kilmore.”

His eyes were still closed but his hand slid down my arm in one stroke, encircling my wrist. “What are you talking about?” he mumbled.

“I can't stay here anymore. Please, Kit. Can we go? Can we go to Kilmore?” I moved my lips against his skin and I felt dizzy, unable to think, but I had to hear him say yes.

“Okay, okay. But don't talk about it now,” he whispered, pulling me closer. “In the morning.”

I wove my fingers through his hair. “No, now. I want to leave now.”

His eyes opened then. He drew back from me, his hand still holding my wrist. “What?”

“We have to leave now,” I said.

He frowned. “Why?”

I got to my knees, yanking my T-shirt down, shivering. “I can't stay here anymore. If you won't take me, I'll drive myself.” I looked straight at him to make sure he'd believe me.

He sat up slowly, wiping his hand over his face. “What are you talking about? You don't know how to drive.”

I tried not to stare at his chest. “I do! Enough. I know enough to drive to Kilmore.” It wasn't true. I'd only been out a few times with my mom, in parking lots and dead-end streets. I wouldn't have my license for another year.

He shook his head, looking at me more closely now. I couldn't meet his gaze. “But what's going on? I mean, jeez, why the fire drill?”

I couldn't answer. So I did the thing that later I wished I hadn't. I leaned toward him and looped my arm around his neck and pulled his face toward mine. I kissed him, and I kept kissing him until I felt his hesitation melt away in the darkness and I couldn't tell where my face ended and his began. And this time, what happened between us wasn't an accident or a surprise. It was a choice.

When we finally stopped, all he said was “Okay.”

I don't know if it was the kissing that did it, or if he understood somehow, or if he knew he wasn't going to change my mind. But whatever the reason, he pushed back the blanket and started gathering his things together, stuffing them into his duffel bag. And I could hardly believe it: there we were, stumbling around in the dark, tiptoeing past the room where Beth and Jamie slept, and leaving a quick scribbled note for Jamie on the kitchen table.

I threw chicken scraps in the dogs' bowls to keep them from barking when we left. Kit found Jamie's keys in the study and slipped his cell phone into the pocket of his jeans. We crossed the yard in the predawn stillness, climbing into the cold car for the first time since the accident.

We were going to Kilmore.

24

It was a long drive on the dark road that stretched to the horizon. Almost immediately we came to the place where we'd found the girl, but we roared past.

I was sitting next to Kit. Not all the way over on the passenger side, but next to him, because it had seemed the most natural thing when we got into the car. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other one resting on my leg, just above my knee. His thumb made lazy circles on my thigh.

He glanced over at me. “So what's the big plan, when we get to Kilmore?”

I could tell he was teasing me, but I didn't care. “We'll go to the restaurants, the stores, whatever's there. And we'll show them the sketch and ask, you know, if anybody saw her. We'll just see what we can find out.”

His thumb kept stroking my leg. “So tell me why that will work. Why do you think we'll find out something the police don't already know?”

“Because … well, maybe we'll think of something they haven't.” I sighed. “It's better than hanging around Beth's watching Jamie ruin his life, isn't it?”

“Who says he's ruining his life?”

I didn't want to fight about it. I laced my fingers through his, lifting his hand into my lap. “I know you think I'm—” I stopped. “Overreacting. But he's my brother, okay? And come on. You can't think it's normal to sleep with somebody who's twenty years older than you are. Are you telling me it doesn't freak you out at all? Not even a little?”

Kit shrugged. “Not really. I mean, believe me, it would if she were ugly. But she's not. I can kind of see it. She's really sure of herself. She knows what she's doing.”

I waited, but he didn't say anything else. “That's it? That's enough to make Jamie sleep with her?”

“Well, yeah. It's the whole package. She puts herself out there, you know? Says what she thinks. Looks you in the eye.” He laughed at my expression. “What? It's not only about boobs. Jeez.”

“But that's all you and Jamie talk about,” I protested.

“Yeah, of course. But there's more to it than that.”

I sighed. “Okay, maybe that explains Jamie. But what about her? What does she see in him?”

Kit snorted. “He's eighteen. She's over-the-hill. I think it's pretty obvious.”

I shook my head. “No, she doesn't seem like that.” I thought about the way Jamie looked at her, and how that must make her feel. I wondered if you could fall in love with someone's image of you; some version of yourself, reflected back.

“Don't worry about it,” Kit said. “It's not like he's going to move to New Mexico and have a bunch of kids with her. He's just, you know, having a good time. You can't blame him for that. Or her.”

I didn't say anything. There was no point.

Around us the darkness was changing, turning blue, then gray, then a violet-pink on the horizon. The desert was streaked with color. The shadowy mountains gathered closer.

I leaned over the back seat and found my sketch pad, then scooted closer to the window to draw.

“Hey, where are you going?” Kit reached down to grab my ankle.

I laughed at him, letting his fingers curl around my foot. “I was going to draw the mountains. But maybe I'll draw you instead.”

“What, from the side?”

“Yeah, a profile. It's easier, actually.” I leaned against the car door with my feet resting on his leg, sketching quickly, the pencil making soft scratching sounds on the page. Part of me couldn't believe this was really Kit Kitson. I studied his smile, his messy hair. I liked the loose constellation of freckles that covered his cheeks; they made him seem younger. The pencil moved without stopping, filling the page with soft lines, with the shadows below his eyes and the texture of his curls.

I thought about what Beth had said: that I should draw what I felt. I tried to think what I felt about Kit. I couldn't see him the way I had even a day ago. The face on the page had laugh lines and a soft mouth. I could feel his skin as I drew. I could feel the dip in his upper lip, the hard angle of his jaw.

“Come on, let me see,” Kit said.

“No, I'm not finished.”

“Let me see what you've got so far.”

“Nope.” I slapped shut the sketch pad and tossed it over the seat.

“Why? Did you screw up already?”

“No! I just don't want you to see it yet.”

“That sounds like you screwed up.”

“Stop.” I kicked at him but he caught my foot and held it still. I could feel his fingertips sinking into my bones. I felt happy suddenly. In spite of everything—the girl, and Jamie and Beth, and what might happen next—here in the car I was happy, with Kit's hand on my foot and the strange, bleak desert coming to light, holding its breath all around us.

“When will we get there?” I asked.

Kit shook his head. “I don't know It's a big place. Everything is far away.”

*   *   *

Finally, when the sun was bright in the sky and we'd driven through the hills, both starving, we saw the sign for Kilmore. It wasn't really a town—more like a few roads that dumped into the highway, with clusters of buildings on either side, a couple of gas stations, a diner, and a low-slung concrete motel with a giant neon cactus looming over it.

“Hey,” I said, “isn't this where we stopped before?”

Kit nodded, looking around. “Yeah, where we ate on the way down.”

“This is where you got the beer.”

The corner of his mouth jerked down. “Yeah.”

The diner was on our side of the road with semis in the parking lot, three of them, huge, silver, and vaguely menacing. Kit pulled off the highway and parked.

“Okay,” he said, letting go of my foot. “Do your thing.”

I looked at him. “Thanks for driving me.”

He smiled. “Not like I had anything better to do.”

“I know, but still. You didn't even complain that much.”

I took my sketch pad and started to get out of the car, but he caught my shoulder. He pulled me toward him, sliding his arms around me, his mouth on mine. Inside the world of that kiss, I couldn't think about anything.

Kit cupped my face in his hands. He held it so gently that it made me feel like something fragile and small, a bird's nest or a piece of glass.

“I like kissing you,” he said.

I looked straight into his eyes. “I like kissing you, too.”

It was only later that I thought about the words: “I like kissing you,” not “I like you.”

*   *   *

It was almost seven o'clock, and the diner was busy, with waitresses skirting past each other around the square tables, lingering to laugh at something one of the truckers said. And it seemed to be mostly truckers, or at least men wearing trucker hats and T-shirts, their arms brown from the sun. They glanced up curiously when we came in, then went back to the vigorous clatter of their breakfasts, scraping forks across their plates, sucking down long drafts of coffee.

“Hey,” Kit said. “That's the girl who served us before.”

The pretty Mexican girl, the one he and Jamie had practiced their Spanish on, was carrying a tray of dirty dishes back to the kitchen.

We sat near one of the windows, which was cracked open a few inches, overlooking the dusty parking lot. The landscape was different here. There were more shrubs and pockets of trees, and striated red bluffs rose in the distance. We'd passed long lengths of barbed-wire fence, with cattle grazing behind them.

The smell of gasoline wafted in from the pumps. There were two yellow paper menus, stained and wrinkled, stuffed between a napkin holder and a large bottle of ketchup.

The Mexican girl came over with a pen and said haltingly, “Yes? What can I get?”

“Hola, guapa,”
Kit said expansively, flashing a big smile at her. “Remember me?”

She smiled back, nodding and checking the door.
“Hay otro?
The other boy?” Her voice had a soft, exotic trill.

So she did remember. It was only three days ago.

“No,” I said. “He's not with us.”

Kit kept smiling at her. “Yeah, all you've got is me this time. Think you can handle it?”

I couldn't believe he was doing this in front of me. I frowned at him, but the waitress was already laughing, her face opening up. “Okay. What can I get?”

I said quickly, “Actually, do you mind if we ask you something? The day we were here, Saturday, did you happen to see this girl?” I fumbled through the sketch pad while Kit sighed. “Did she come here for breakfast or lunch maybe?”

The waitress looked confused. “
Otra vez?
” she said, turning to Kit. “I don't understand.”

I held the drawing out to her, and her face changed. She looked from me to Kit, then abruptly left the table.

“Well, that was smooth,” Kit said. “Nice job. She didn't even take our order.”

“She would have had our order ten minutes ago if you weren't so busy hitting on her,” I snapped.

“Oh, give me a break. I wasn't hitting on her.”

“Right. You would have acted exactly the same if she were a guy.”

“Sure.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Maybe you really are gay.”

He started to react, then just laughed at me. He lifted my hand from the table and ran his fingers lightly over my forearm. I shivered.

“Cut it out,” I said, pulling away. “Look, somebody else is coming.”

An older woman with short gray hair strode briskly to the table. “Elena says you have a question?”

I nodded, holding out the sketch. “We were just wondering if this girl had been here. If you'd seen her in the last few days?”

“Why are you asking?” the woman said coldly.

Kit wasn't going to help. He sat back, watching me struggle to explain.

I looked at the girl's face on the page, the dark curtain of hair and the huge, staring eyes. I took a deep breath and began. “There was a car accident, and this girl, well, she's dead. Not from the accident—she was already dead—but we found her. And we're just trying to help the police,” I sat up a little straighter, “help the police identify her and figure out what happened.”

The woman's expression didn't change. “The police have already been here. We told them everything we know.”

I swallowed. “Well … do you mind telling us? Have you seen her?”

The woman paused. “There's nothing to tell,” she said finally. “The girl was here on Saturday, but she came in alone and left alone.”

“Really?” I clutched the pad. It was the first time I'd been able to picture her alive. I imagined her walking through the door, her long hair swinging. “Did you talk to her? Did she say where she was from? Where she was going?”