That One Day (That One #1.5) (3 page)

But I don’t have it in me to regret it. This is the only real memory I’m taking with me. The only honest thing in my life.

I hate leaving her, though. She’s going to be pissed off and hurt. But mostly pissed off. She’s a force to be reckoned with when she’s in a good mood, never mind a bad one. Me stealing off in the middle of the night will make her hate me. And I probably deserve it.

I scribble
Sorry
on the paper and set it on top of her clothes so she’ll find it in the mayhem we created. I kiss her forehead softly, lingering for a moment. Leaving now when I might have a chance with her after all these years hurts like a motherfucker. But it needs to happen.

If I could be honest with myself, I would admit that I do love her and have for a long time. But I can’t. Instead, I just tell myself it was years of built up sexual tension we needed to release. With that, I make my way to the garage, leaving her behind. Leaving my old life behind, or what’s left of it anyway.

Loud music blasts from the speakers of my old truck. The bass is turned up to the max and makes the dashboard tremble when “Voices” by Disturbed comes on.

I concentrate on the music, trying to rein in my thoughts and feelings.

After I left Frankie, I emptied my bank account, fueled up the truck, and bought snacks and energy drinks before I hit the road. My destination: Tucson, Arizona.

I ignore the exhaustion that’s trying to take ahold. I haven’t slept for close to twenty-four hours, but I don’t want to stop anywhere just yet. Instead, I open another energy drink, drinking it in big gulps before I throw the empty can behind me.

An hour later the gas tank is nearly empty, so I pull over at a gas station close to Indianapolis. The sun is shining and a nice breeze is blowing. It could be a perfect day. Instead, it feels like the weather is mocking my misery.

After filling the tank, I grab a sandwich and get back into the truck. Before I even manage to start the engine, I hear my phone ring. Ignoring it, I pull out of the gas station and back onto the highway. My phone has been ringing non-stop since I left. Instead of turning it off or on silent, I turned up the music. Every incoming call reminds me why I can’t go back no matter how much I’d like to. It reminds me of why I’m leaving everything behind—including Frankie.

The first few times I checked to see who’s calling. Mostly, it’s been my mom and dad…I mean Ron. Dave has tried calling a couple times, as well. I let them all go to voicemail, wondering if I’ll have it in me to listen to the messages later.

I know it’s probably my mother calling again, but a part of me hopes it’s Frankie. The fucking masochist in me wants to hear her voice, wants to hear her say everything is going to be all right and my life isn’t a fucking joke.

Although, I’m aware that if she were to call me, it’d be to tell me to go hell. She has no idea I’m already there.

Deep down I know she won’t call. She’s either plotting my death right now, or—more likely—it didn’t mean as much to her as I hoped. Chicks get emotional. They get swept up in all that romantic, touchy bullshit. Her confession might have been just caused by a fleeting emotion—said in the heat of the moment.

The ringing stops only to pick up again a few seconds later. When I finally look down onto the phone,
Dad
is flashing on the screen. What a fucking joke. I grip the steering wheel tighter, every ring fueling my anger further. The call is forwarded to voicemail and I hope it’s done, but yet again the ringing sound fills the cab of my truck. I’m fed up, angry, and tired, and if I have to hear the phone one more time or think about who might be calling, I’ll lose my shit. So I hit the button for the passenger side window, grab the phone, and toss it out into the shrubs growing on the side of the highway. I hope it shatters into thousand little pieces. Just like my life.

At least now I won’t be dealing with hundreds of calls from my mother. No voicemails of her trying to sell me more of her lies. No wondering whether or not Frankie will call.

I close the window and turn on the stereo again, skipping songs until I get to Pantera’s “Vulgar Display of Power” album. It’s angry and violent enough to soothe the rage surging through my veins.

***

I planned to make it farther, but after another two and a half hours of driving the exhaustion catches up with me. At this point, the energy drinks only make me jittery instead of keeping me awake.

I find a cheap motel that looks like it’s flea infested, but I don’t really care. I rent a room and then decide to get something to eat. Across the street is a small diner and I head over there, eating my first real meal in over twenty-four hours. Only when the waitress sets the burger with fries down in front of me, do I realize how hungry I am.

Once I’m done, I throw the money including the tip on the table and make my way out, heading to the liquor store down the road. I get what I need to help me numb myself enough to be able to sleep. Looks like I’ll be spending the next few hours with my good old friend whiskey. He never disappoints, never lies.

***

The motel room is as dingy as the outside promised, with faded wallpaper and a stained carpet. It looks like nothing has been changed since the 70s.

I kick off my Converse and unscrew the bottle, taking a swig. Leaning against the headboard, I run my hand through my short hair. Out of nowhere, the memory of Frankie tugging it when I rocked into her hits me. I let out a ragged breath and take another swig of the whiskey, letting it burn away the memories. One third of the bottle later, I set it down on the bedside table before I slide down the bed fully clothed and fall into a coma-like sleep.

After sleeping for nearly twenty hours, I wake up the next morning with a major headache. I guess my road diet of energy drinks and chips followed by whiskey isn’t agreeing with me.

Realizing I smell like death, I head for the shower. The bathroom is just as bad as the rest of the room, but I’m not planning to stay here longer than necessary. I ignore the mold that should have its own zip code and the ball of hair in the drain, as well as the grime on the tiles.

Instead, I look at myself in the mirror and see a guy I don’t recognize. Unshaven, dark circles under his brown eyes with a haunted look in them.

When I start to turn toward the shower, red lines running down my back jump out at me. It takes a moment to realize Frankie must’ve scratched me. Exhaling slowly, I close my eyes and allow myself to remember. Frankie underneath me, looking at me like I’m the fucking prize she’s wanted her whole life.

One thought about her and my cock is hard. You’d think with all the shit going on in my life I wouldn’t even be able to get it up. I slam my hand against the sink before I turn and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me.

My hand goes to my cock of its own accord, and before I realize it, I start jerking off to the memory of Frankie. The way she moved underneath me, the way her mouth felt on mine, and how I felt when I was inside her—home. It doesn’t take long until I come with a groan and shudder.

Still breathing hard, I grab the complimentary, cheap soap and wash off the past two days as best as I can. After drying off and getting dressed, I leave the motel and throw my bag into the truck before I head to last night’s diner for breakfast. Sometime between waking up from my stupor and getting out of the shower, I realized if I want to make it to Tucson alive, I need to eat real food once in a while.

I’m one of maybe ten guests and looking around this time, I see that the diner has seen better days. The seat covers are cracked, revealing the padding underneath, and the tables are scratched to hell. I chuckle, realizing that anything I currently come into contact with is just as fucked-up as my life. My truck, the motel, and now, the diner.

After some scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage, I hit the road, angry music roaring through the truck. I try not to think, not to analyze what happened. I try not to remember moments from my childhood with my mother and the man I thought to be my father, but I don’t succeed.

Memories hit me out of nowhere, reminding me of the good times. Looking back, there were many. There were the yearly father and son trips with Ron. We went to the U.P. and camped out in the woods, cooking beans and sausages over the fire we made, talking about man stuff.

My heart squeezes in my chest when I think back to the camping trip when I was twelve and puberty was raging.

I was a little shit, talking back, getting into trouble at school. I didn’t even want to go on the trip, but he didn’t take no for an answer. We were sitting around the fire that night while the beans cooked. I’d been sulking for hours after he’d taken my MP3 player away. I was pissed off and instead of talking to him, I stared off into the darkness, not seeing much beyond the trees surrounding us, the crackling of the flames filling the silence. Ron interrupted my pity party, his deep voice carrying through the night.

“You know, Son, you can behave like a little shit all you want, I still love you. Always will. You’re going through a tough time, but we’ll get through it.” He paused for a moment, most likely allowing the words to sink in, before he added, “That is, if I don’t leave your sorry ass out in the woods.” He chuckled at his own joke, and no matter how cool I wanted to be, I couldn’t help the corner of my mouth lifting into a grin. I covered it up quickly.

“You suck, Dad.”

“I know and yet, you love me.” He grabbed me, pulling me to his side, and gave me a noogie.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, the knuckles on my hands turning white. My jaw is clenched as I relive one of the many moments that were a fucking lie. He isn’t my father, never was. My father is someone I don’t even know. Someone that hasn’t cared enough about me to look for me in all these years.

“Fuck.” I hit the steering wheel before turning up the music to the point it hurts my ears. Anything to distract me from my thoughts. Ironically, the next song to come on is Papa Roach’s “Broken Home” and I can’t bear it. The lyrics hit too close to home. I skip the song, choosing “Getting Away With Murder” instead.

The rest of the trip is pretty much the same. I stop for gas and food once before I make it to some small town in New Mexico by evening. I decide to look for a motel again and end up in another dingy shithole. I’ll be surprised if I don’t end this trip with a case of bed bugs or fleas.

I drop my stuff off in my room and decide to head out. There is a dive bar close to the motel. The inside pretty much resembles the outside. Washed-out truckers and local girls vying for their attention.

It’s quite pathetic.

Somehow, I feel right at home.

I sit down at the bar and order a whiskey. I’ve downed the first glass and order another when I’m suddenly encased in a cloud of cheap perfume. From the corner of my eye I see a girl, probably my age, but with all the makeup she looks ten years older.

“Hey, handsome.” She flashes me a smile and I notice some tacky gem stuck on her tooth. I can’t help but snort. The girl could be really pretty, but she looks cheap, trying too hard to get noticed.

I down the next shot and wait for a refill while desperately trying not to give her any ideas. Apparently, I fail as her hand suddenly trails down my shoulder.

“Sorry, not interested.” I’m trying to be polite, but there’s no point in getting her hopes up. Huffing, she slides off the stool. I hear her mutter “Asshole” under her breath as she passes me.

Yeah, that would be me. And I’m sure Frankie would agree. Fuck, here I go again thinking about Frankie. If I’m not thinking about how fucked-up my life is, or wondering how I’m going to find my real father, I’m thinking about her—how she felt, how she smelled and sounded, and how she probably hates my guts by now.

Just when I think it couldn’t get worse, some asshole decides to pick a song on the jukebox. Of all the songs in the fucking world, someone has to pick Kenny Rogers’s version of “Ain’t No Sunshine.” Someone should just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

This song gives me flashbacks to the night with Frankie. It only happened two nights ago, but it feels like a different life. I’m relieved when the song ends and some country tune comes on. To celebrate, I order another drink.

Thankfully, no more chicks try to gain my attention. After a few more shots, I stumble back to my motel, falling face first onto the bed that emanates a weird smell, but I’m too drunk to care. I fall into a dreamless sleep, and I’m fucking thankful for it.

The next morning I go through the same regimen as last time. I shower, jerk off thinking about Frankie, and head out to a small diner for breakfast. There I realize something—no matter how far I go, what state I’m in, everything repeats itself. The cheap motels, the diners with the middle-aged waitresses who seem to have lost every ounce of happiness, the washed-out truckers everywhere. It’s depressing.

Welcome to the American Dream.

After finishing my breakfast, I check out of the motel, get gas, and hit the road. I should make it to Tucson by evening. I only hope the lawyer will still be in his office by the time I get there.

When I stop to fill up the gas tank again, the heat is suffocating. Being from the north, I’m not used to this kind of temperature, and it feels like it might singe my hair right off. I wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started to rise from my forearms. A few minutes out of the car and sweat is trickling down my forehead. Why does my grandmother have to have a house in Arizona? Alaska would have been a much nicer, and cooler, option.

Then again, I suppose hell rarely is a cool and breezy place; it is pretty fucking fitting I feel like I’m boiling alive since I’m in my own kind of hell.