The Alignment (2 page)

The front door is already unlocked, and we go inside. You don’t see a lot of knotty pine in homes in Chicago, and I love it. The cathedral ceiling in the main room makes the house feel much bigger inside than it looks. He would hate this house.

We walk through the main room to the kitchen where a vase of wildflowers and a yellow envelope greet me from the table.

“Nancy…” I should have known she was going to do this.

“Look Liv, I don’t have a lot of clients like you. This is special. I’m honored to help you during this…time…in your life.” Her eyes mist over, but she contradicts them with a grin. “Just humor me, okay?”

Inside the card are two gift certificates—one for the town spa, one for Avon products. I manage a smile. “I guess you’re trying to clean me up?” I know I must be grateful for her kindness, but the feeling slips through me and I can’t get ahold of it again. People like her are going to help me get through this. Hopefully this town is full of them.

“Never. But everyone loves to be pampered.” She squeezes my arm. “Now let’s take a look at that view.”

We step out onto the back porch, and I am struck by the panorama. Evergreens stiff and straight, crowding every possible space like the bristles of a brush. I focus on the sky above them and they turn into a rolling green sea, its waves gently falling away in the distance to reveal the snow-topped Rockies on the horizon. To my right is mountainside, pointing straight up. To my left, open air extending out to the face of a small white bluff interrupting the thick pine forest. A shoulder of the Black River peeks through the trees below it. The pictures did not do this justice.

“Pinch me,” I say. I can’t tell her it’s all too new, too foreign, to feel real. Someday I’ll cherish this view like it deserves to be cherished.

Nancy gives me a sly look, her eyes smiling. “I can’t believe this place sat as long as it did. Surrounded by all this conservation land? This is the very definition of peace. You can pretend all of this is yours and there won’t be anyone around to complain.”

“It’s perfect.” I’ve made an awful mistake.

“You do have one adjacent neighbor but…” She turns toward the river and squints into the distance. She waves the thought away. “He’s too far away to borrow sugar.”

I thought the quiet would kill me in Chicago. Out here, it’s going to slowly skin me alive.

“And this is where I’m going to leave you. Cell phone service is great up here. Please call me if you need anything. I mean that.”

I give her a hug, and she lets herself out. I hear her tires on the gravel, rolling down the hill. And then, nothing but the wind.

This must be what it feels like to be the last person on earth.

I envision my old house. My front door. Shoes in the front hall. The switch for the light with the spent bulb too high for me to replace, but I always try to turn it on anyway. Yet somehow, the unforgiving solitude under this sky, surrounded by these snowy mountains, is less lonely than being back home on my busy street where I knew every neighbor. I will go back someday, but not before I’m prepared. He could be there right now.

I should not be so pleased the paper in my pocket is not there with him.

When my arms fall asleep on the railing, I remember how much I have to unpack. I go back through the house and out the front door. The coyote dog is sitting next to my car as if he finally has his greeting prepared. I feel like I need to shake his paw. He watches me intently while I unpack the trunk.

“I could use some help,” I say, on the twentieth trip back to the car.

The coyote dog stands, looks into the woods as if hearing someone calling his name, and saunters off. I stare after him and wonder if he just pretended to hear something in order to get out of helping. See, I am already going crazy out here.

As if longing for him to find me isn’t crazy enough.

Chapter 2

Trey

R
iver greets me
at the driveway with her tail wagging hard enough to bend her body to the side. It’s one of her more obvious signals for no visitors. I pull the Ninja into the garage, take off my helmet, and tug the door closed. Halfway to the house, I halt. Something feels different. Something is off. I turn on my heel to glance at River—surely she would feel it too.

She cocks her head in a “What?” I notice the bloody trail carved into the gravel from the back of the house to the garage. This sloppiness will drive me out of town, force me to do what I’d rather not do. It’s my own damn fault. I just don’t remember it being so messy.

I look at River. “Is someone here?”

She lowers her tail and gives me a defensive look, and I know what will happen if I don’t trust her—the silent treatment, for hours, maybe days. Since I’d rather not be without her help, I nonchalantly grab a piece of firewood off the porch like I was planning to bring it into the house, open the front door, and listen.

All clear.

And I am so whipped. By a dog.

I go inside but the surge of blood through my veins persists in its effort to warn me. Something feels vastly different. I’m never wrong. It doesn’t really matter, though. If he wants to wait and surprise me, that’s fine. I’m always game for that, in fact, I welcome it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out. “Hey Mike,” I answer.

“Trey. Last time I checked, you owe me a favor.”

“Is that right?” It probably is. I can never remember these things.

“I’ve got to pick up a big load tomorrow. I could use your truck and your manpower.”

“What time?” I ask.

“Late. They’re going to finish up during the day and whatever’s left at the end of the day is mine.”

I turn toward a sound picked up by my unoccupied ear. “All right. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”

“Will do. Thanks, man.”

“I’m just glad we’ll finally be even.”

He hangs up, cutting off his laughter. I end the call and listen. That sound must have been nothing. I’m getting paranoid. I need a drink.

I toss the firewood on the hearth and untie and kick off my boots. When I look up, I notice the mess in the kitchen I was too tired to clean up last night, too tired to clean up this morning. And too tired right now. Being tired has become a disease. Its symptoms range from apathy to complete mental drain. I’m its victim and its expert and I’ve known it’s winning for a long time now, but I can’t be bothered to think my way free of it.

The most unfortunate part is I have an eternity to be tired.

I move to the doorway of the kitchen to stare at the mess. The kitchen faucet drips, and my shoulders sag. That’s the reason I left this morning. I can’t stand another night of that dripping. How could I have forgotten? My lack of focus gets worse every day. It should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Nothing surprises me anymore.

I turn away from the pile of broken dishes, kitchen table on its side, blood splattered on the wall, knife drawer upside down on the floor with knives scattered. I pull my boots back on, drag myself into my truck, and head back to town. I’m barely going to make it before the hardware store closes.

While waiting at a red light at Fifth Street, I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline. It’s that gray Acura again, parked across the intersection on the other side of the street. The car starts to pull away and I know they realize they’ve been spotted. They make a right on Fifth so I turn left and floor my truck in pursuit even though they already have a big lead. The light shines green at the next intersection and I blow through, hoping the next light will change to green before I get there. The red light gets closer but I know I won’t stop. Nothing will make me stop this time. I enter the intersection just as I see another car coming at me from the right. Against my will, my foot slams on the brake, but it’s too late. Metal smashes. My truck sends the red car spinning into the curb where it stops and sways. We’re about twenty feet apart but I can smell the red car’s antifreeze. I smell my burning rubber. I pop the steering wheel with my fist. That gray Acura got away.

I step out of the truck and notice the other driver doubled over as if she’s about to throw up. As I approach, she appears to collect herself and takes a big breath. Here we go.

“Are you insane?!”

“You aren’t the first person to ask me that.” People often mistake the bitterness in my voice for sarcasm and think I’m making a joke, but as soon as the words are out I can see she’s not one of those people.

She throws her hands in the air while shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Did you not realize you had the red?”

“I did realize that. I was hoping you’d see me.” I wonder if she’ll believe I’m telling the truth. People rarely tell the truth when the collision is their fault. What else am I going to say anyway? I’m a bad liar.

Her eyes narrow. “Is this a joke?”

“I wish it was.” Maybe then I’d have something to laugh about for once. I glance at her car. “You’re driving on a donut. No wonder you couldn’t stop in time.”

“Me? Not stop in time?”

I crouch to look at her other tire, hissing as it loses air. “And this one’s worn to hell. You have no tread. Are the backs as bad?”

She opens her mouth to say something but breaks off as if the words catch in her throat. Turning away from me, she takes a few long, deep breaths while staring back down the road past her car. I watch her and wait until she finally turns back.

Her voice strains. “I’m calling the police.”

“No need. I admit fault. I’ll pay to fix your car.”

“And then you just walk away with no consequences? I don’t think so. You can’t just blast through a red light with no regard for other people’s lives, cause an accident, and get away with it!”

She is determined, I’ll give her that. Punishing me for this may seem appropriate to her. I can’t blame her for thinking a ticket, a fine, or even jail time would bother me in some way, teach me a lesson of some sort. I doubt she’s capable of grasping what little effect it would have. She turns toward her car. My first reflex is to grab her hand.

“Do
not
touch me.” She yanks her hand away like I have a disease. How ironic.

“Be reasonable. I’m being reasonable.” It’s becoming an effort to keep my voice calm.

“
I
need to be reasonable? You’re a psychopath!”

“And you’re starting to get on my nerves.” Barely realizing I spoke aloud, I begin to fantasize about telling her how she made me lose the gray Acura. How her being here at the same moment I was stopped me from catching it. Maybe she would calm down if I told her exactly what had been at stake here.

She opens her mouth again but no words come out. She must not be from around here. Not many people who live in this part of the country overreact when faced with such a simple problem, a problem that has already been solved. I close my eyes to gather my thoughts and imagine the relief I could feel by telling someone about the gray Acura. And I wouldn’t have to stop there. What would it feel like to tell someone, a complete stranger, about everything? Doesn’t matter if it’s her. Just any other human being capable of listening. The sound of another car pulling up breaks me out of my trance.

“Is everyone okay…
Liv
?”

It’s Nancy Carter, the town’s one and only real estate agent. Using her presence as an out, I make my way around the crash. My truck looks untouched, but her car looks like it needs a shitload of work. The axle is definitely bent, and the flat tire holds onto the rim for dear life. I’ll have it towed to my mechanic. Body and mechanical damage. That’s going to be one hefty bill. Before I turn away, the Illinois license plate catches my eye. So I was right.

I return to the women and take a deep relieved breath when I see that Nancy appears to be having better luck than I am. Shit, I could use a drink.

Nancy turns to me. “I’m going to take Liv home. She lives at the Joseph place right across the river from you. She’s going to need a car at some point, preferably sooner than later, and this mess needs to be taken care of. I’m assuming you can handle all of it?”

People around here seem to trust me. Hell if I know why. I nod my answer—that was my plan from the beginning anyway. The other driver just wouldn’t listen.

Nancy stuffs the other driver into her own car. Then she’s in my face again. She lowers her voice. “She’s alone in that house. She doesn’t know anyone here and she has no one to help her. It’s all you, Trey.”

“Got it.” The first time. I’d say it, but she’d probably smack me.

She gets in her car and drives away. My truck starts confidently, so I pull over to the side of the road. After grabbing an empty box out of the bed, I head back to the other car and wrench open the passenger door. It groans a complaint and buckles in the middle. Great, more to fix. Her car is a stick, so I know she can drive my truck when I leave it for her. I grab her stuff from inside the car and throw everything in the box. I try not to notice the economy-size bottle of Pepto-Bismol and assume she doesn’t need it right away. She can get more if she does. Not my problem.

I get back in my truck to wait for the tow. A hot trickle runs down my cheek, and I brush it away. My hand comes back with a smear of red. I turn the rearview mirror toward me. Crap. The gash above my eyebrow has opened again, oozing blood down my face. I look down. And my shirt. I knew it needed stitches and shouldn’t have put it off. I have to honor the promise I made to myself that I can sew up any part of my body except my face. I’m neither skilled nor patient enough to do a decent job, and I don’t want to end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster.

I wipe the blood on my jeans. Just what I wanted to do tomorrow—drop by the clinic for stitches. At least this time I have a good excuse for the gash. Too bad I don’t care.

The tow arrives, and I give him instructions. I manage to get the bleeding to stop, so I drive to the hardware store in Casper that’s open an hour later. Figuring I won’t have a useful vehicle for a while, I run some errands while I still can. My appearance inspires a variety of strange looks, but nothing I’m not used to. These people should know to expect it from me by now, but apparently this little amount of blood is enough to throw them into a panic. If they had any idea the amount of blood I see regularly, my appearance today wouldn’t be worth a second glance. Maybe the next time I have a really good run-in I should just come straight out into public without cleaning up first. Now
that
reaction might give me something to laugh about.

With my errands complete, I drive my truck home to unload my ladder and replace it with my ramp and tie-downs. I’ll need to haul the Ninja when she’s done with the truck—I’ll be stuck with two vehicles in the same spot and only one driver to get them home. Then I’m off to the Joseph cabin. It’s late, and I don’t want to encourage any obligatory greeting, so I pull up and kill the engine immediately. The mutt on the front porch stands but makes no attempt to approach. I leave the key in the ignition and head down to the river on foot. Once I reach the shore, I look up to the night sky for Orion to guide me home.

*

My weary eyes open to the morning sunlight that hits hard at the back of my head. Another killer headache and I only have myself to blame. After a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee at the counter, I shower, throw on a clean white T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. I slip on my riding jacket and grab my helmet. It’s a quick drive to the clinic on the Ninja, and I know getting this done first thing is the only way I’ll follow through. I dread this. The clinic itself doesn’t bother me. It’s the concentration of cheerful people that really gets me down. I’ve been alone so long it’s hard to remember how to get along with people the way everyone else does. I’m incapable of putting on a smile and making small talk. I feel like I’m dragging people down into my abyss.

While I’m signing in to see the nurse, the frosted window slides open. Ann takes the clipboard and initials by my name. “What have you done now?”

I tilt my head so she can see.

“That’s a nasty one. You just missed your eye. Still self-pay?”

I nod.

“Same credit card?”

I nod again.

“Have a seat.”

I drop my helmet on a chair and sit next to it. I stare at the magazines on the wall rack, too lazy to get up and retrieve one.

“Trey Bevan?”

I rise.

Rachel beams at me. “Again so soon? Fell off another ladder already?”

The ever popular running joke with the nurses. Every time I show up it’s because I’ve fallen off a ladder. I gave up trying to provide good excuses a long time ago. She walks me to an exam room where the nurse is waiting for me in the perfect personification of my crappy luck.

“This is Nurse Gilchrist. She’s new, so go easy on her. Okay, Trey?” Rachel hands Nurse Gilchrist my chart and hurries out. The door closes behind her. It’s like I’ve just been locked in a cage.

Nurse Gilchrist looks as sickened as I feel. “Too bad she didn’t ask that of you yesterday,” she mutters, turning away. “I assume you got this cut in the crash? The one you caused? By driving like a reckless idiot?” Her words aren’t any less offensive spoken to my chart in her lap.

“I’m surprised you don’t remember.” It’s pointless to try to hide the disgust in my voice. Every one of my fingernails could have just been ripped off and it would only begin to explain the degree of pounding irritation now alive in my brain.

“I was a little distracted.” She hasn’t opened my chart but it’s still holding all her interest. She puts a hand to her mouth. Swallows hard.

I toss my helmet on the chair and catch her annoyed glance when the back of the chair hits the wall with a thud. I lean against the exam table. She stands and reaches for the blood pressure cuff on the wall.

“Just the stitches.”

She drops her hand. Opens my chart, skims a few pages, closes it. “Okay.”

There must be a note in there that says to leave me the hell alone.

“How did you get the laceration? Was it the car accident?”