I follow Sue Anne down a creaking hardwood floor, bumpy and rippled from years of wear. When we walk in the kitchen I get the sensation that I’m walking downhill. The farmhouse must be ancient.
“How long have you lived out here?” I ask.
“The house has been in the family for four generations,” she tells me. “We retired the farm about ten years ago, but I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“Do you have any kids?” I ask.
“Just one,” Sue Anne tells me. “A daughter. And two grand kids.”
She offers me a seat at the kitchen table, covered in a vinyl red and white checkered cover. It matches the checkered valances over the kitchen windows. I sit down and examine a salt and pepper shaker in the design of farm silos. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I’m here, stranded in the middle of Nebraska with Gray. I can still see his face in the parking lot when he recognized me. He didn’t look surprised or shocked to see me. It was worse than that. He looked scared, as if he was staring at a tidal wave looming over him and he wasn’t sure whether to hold his ground and pray, or run for his life.
I do what I do best when I’m emotionally overwhelmed. I spill my heart out.
I explain to Sue Anne how I’ve been on the road for two weeks looking for Serena, and how my car broke down in Omaha. When I mention running into Gray a few hours ago, she stops slicing bread and turns to look at me.
“You mean, you two aren’t together?” Sue Anne asks.
“Oh. No,” I say. Thunder rumbles outside.
“You were holding hands when you came in,” she catches me.
“That’s just because of the storm,” I say.
“Was it?” she asks and then she cuts herself off. “Sorry. It’s none of my business. My husband always says I’m a little bit psychic, but I just love observing people. They say so much without saying anything.”
I smile. I feel like she’s an old friend. “We used to date,” I tell her. “It’s a long story.”
“Looks like there’s still some feelings,” she says, and sets down a plate in front of me.
“Yes,” I say without hesitating. “I’m in love with him. Completely. Absolutely. Tragically.”
She laughs. “Tragic?” she asks. “Isn’t it a good thing to be in love?”
“No.” I look up at her and shake my head. “It’s actually the worst feeling in the world. It’s agonizical.”
“Is that a real word?” she asks.
“I just made it up,” I say. “I tend to do that. I make up words. Sometimes there are never the right ones, you know?”
“What does agonizical mean?” she asks.
I hold up my hands like it’s obvious. “To be consumed with shock and denial at unrequited love from the man who is supposed to be your soul mate,” I say. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. I blow out a sigh.
“Unrequited?” she says and sits down across from me. I pick up a piece of thick, yellow bread lathered in butter and I take an enormous bite. Even the whipped butter tastes sweet and homemade.
“Are you saying that man out there isn’t in love with you?” she asks and points at the door. I look in the direction she’s pointing, down the hallway.
“He has a girlfriend,” I say through a mouthful of bread.
She laughs again. “Well, honey, I can guarantee you he’s only thinking about one girl right now. And it’s not his girlfriend.”
I raise my eyebrows and look around her kitchen for a sign advertising psychic readings.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“There’s a trick to understanding all men,” she claims.
I lean closer to her over the table, intrigued.
“If you want to know what a man is thinking about just watch his eyes,” she says. “Where a man’s eyes go, that is where his heart is. It’s like the two are linked. That’s how I met my husband. We were at a party and he was with another girl at the time. But his eyes never left me. They followed me around the room all night. We were dating a week later.” She points back towards the living room. “That boy’s eyes have been following you since you two walked in the door.”
“Probably because he thinks I’m nuts,” I say, which is a much more likely hypothesis.
“They usually do, dear. It’s another sign they’re in love. When a man tells you that you’re insane, it’s really his way of professing his love.”
I smile. I’ve never met this woman before, but I’ve decided she’s an angel, or maybe a messenger of Fate. I stare into her brown eyes, and notice the whites are webbed with thin red spidery veins. They’re beautiful and complicated and I can tell she’s lived her life without ever missing a single detail.
I gulp down the corn bread with a glass of milk and my stomach is relishing the flavor and my mind is reveling in her words. Rain starts to hit the side of the window, but the storm isn’t angry anymore. It’s like a cleansing shower, washing away my heavy thoughts, flushing them from my mind like branches down a stream.
We head back into the living room and Gray’s eyes snap to me when I walk through the door. I feel a rush of nerves ball in my stomach when our eyes meet. My body is still adjusting to the shock of his presence. A tornado warning scrolls along the bottom of the screen and we all turn to read the weather report.
“A cold front’s moving through,” Chris informs us. “And it’s taking its sweet time. It’s supposed to storm all night.” The warning statement runs across the screen like a teleprompter: expect golf ball sized hail, dangerous lightening, and wind gusts up to seventy-miles-an-hour. Seek shelter. Do not go outside.
“How far is it to the nearest town?” I ask.
“About forty miles,” Chris says. He takes a sip of beer. “The towns are all under flash floods. I’d consider trading in your car for a boat.”
I look at Gray and notice his eyes widen.
“He’s just joking around. You kids aren’t going anywhere,” Sue Anne says. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight. Follow me,” she says and Gray stands up. I walk behind Sue Anne and Gray walks a few feet behind me. When we stop in front of a closed door, he almost stumbles into me and I feel a jolt run up my back.
I’ve become acutely aware of space over the last few hours, how my mind and body react to the proximity of Gray. I start to mentally record my observations:
GRAY PROXIMITY SCALE:
Standing in the Same Room = Generalized anxiety, stomach flips, hyper awareness, physical need to repress the smile reflex.
Three Feet Away = Light-headedness, urge to touch magnified, noticeable face flush.
One Foot Away = WARNING—ENTERING PRZ (pheromone release zone). Body detects sex pheromones triggering sexual desire, heart spasms, tingling of nerve endings in lips, tongue and fingertips, noticeable heart palpitations, pelvic muscles contracting.
Six Inches Away = WARNING—ENTERING KZ (kissing zone). Sensory overload, heightened sense of smell, taste, and touch, elevated body temperature, hormone levels increase approximately 1,000%, shallow breath, diminished decision-making ability.
Less Than Six Inches Away = ABORT. ABORT. THERE IS NO GOING BACK.
I silently wonder if a body suit made out of steel could repel any of these symptoms.
When Sue Anne opens the guest bedroom and we walk in, Gray’s mouth drops open.
I look around and feel like we stepped inside a five-year-old girl’s play fort. Everything is pink. The quilt on the bed, the frilly curtains, the lamp shades, even the chair in the corner looks like it’s wearing a pink tutu.
Gray’s eyes are fixed on the full-sized bed, sitting in the middle of the room. I can almost see a red DO NOT ENTER warning sign emblazed over the patchwork quilt.
“I hope this will do,” Sue Anne remarks.
The room’s tiny. There’s hardly any floor space so sleeping next to the bed isn’t an option. Even the bed looks small, or maybe objects appear smaller than normal when viewed through sexual tension.
Gray points over his shoulder.
“Ah, I noticed a couch in the living room. Would it be alright if I crashed in there later?” he asks.
She shakes her head.
“Sorry, but my husband is a terrible snorer. It sounds like a snow plow’s driving through our room, so I kick him out of bed around midnight. He uses the couch.”
Gray nods. “No problem,” he says. He meets my eyes and I shrug.
Sue Anne offers me a quick smile and a wink before she shuts the door. I smile back, but it’s as weak as tissue paper. I feel terrible. Gray was nice enough to give me a ride to Flagstaff. Sharing a bed, with our past, takes our predicament from uncomfortable to painful.
I look around the room and an old fashioned wooden clock on the wall points to ten o’clock. Gray looks nowhere near tired. I’m not sure which is worse for him, being enclosed in a tiny bedroom with me for the night, or dodging tornados. They seem to be equally horrifying.
He sits down on the tutu chair. I almost raise my camera to take a picture, but I doubt Gray wants me to document the most awkward moment of his life. The small pink chair only makes his body stand out, long and dark and masculine against it. I notice the solid line of his calf muscles. I lick my lips and look away.
“Isn’t this great?” I ask and sit on the corner of the bed. Gray lowers his eyebrows at my terrible joke. “We’re basically getting a free room at a bed and breakfast,” I point out.
He nods. “It’s a perfect travel budget,” he agrees. “I’ll try to drive into oncoming storms more often.”
I laugh and I’m grateful for the joke. At least his sarcasm is intact.
I pull out my pigtails and my damp hair falls wavy around my neck. I run my fingers through it and my hair gets caught in knots and I realize I don’t have a comb. I had been borrowing Nick’s the entire trip. I blow out a sigh and stare down at my naked feet, complete with a flip flop tan line. Gray used to trace his fingers over all my tan lines, like a maze, starting at my feet and working his way up, although he never made it all the way to my head. There were too many interesting detours to take along the way. I shift and look over at Gray and his eyes are on me. I think about what Sue Anne said. I expect him to snap his gaze away, but he doesn’t. More thunder rumbles outside.
“Are you having your deep thought for the day?” he asks me.
“Today I’ve had too many to count,” I admit. I wish I could share my spatial proximity data analysis with him. I know he’d appreciate it.
“Since when is your hair wavy?” he asks, studying me.
“When I cut it short, it just got wavy. I guess when it’s longer it straightens out.” I smile. “Even my hair can’t make up its mind.”
Gray keeps his eyes on mine.
“Snicker bar’s probably worried about you,” he says.
So, that’s what he’s thinking about. No, Nick isn’t worried about me. He would be ecstatic to hear about my current situation, and enraged that I’m not taking full advantage of it.
“Probably,” I say and try to tussle the knots out of my hair with my fingers.
“Sorry if I was being a jerk earlier today,” Gray says. I meet his eyes, surprised by the apology. “I was a little shocked to see you and then meet your boyfriend,” he admits. “It was a lot to take in.”
I open my mouth to cut him off. I can’t lie to him about Nick. It’s time to come clean.
“Gray—”
“But, he’s good for you,” Gray says with a satisfied nod as if this is a theory he’s recently comes to terms with.
I look down at the floor and feel my forehead crease with confusion. What? He’s condoning our relationship? That doesn’t make sense. Sue Anne is no longer a messenger of Fate. She is a messenger of Bullshit.
I look back at him. “Why do you think that?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Gray says.
His unresponsive response annoys me.
“Yes, you do,” I say. “You brought it up. You have a hundred opinions about everything.”
“True,” he says. He breathes out a long, thoughtful breath and his chest rises and falls. He’s too relaxed. Too okay with my fictional boyfriend.
“He seems more like you. Upbeat, optimistic, light-hearted. Loves dogs and appreciates shitty cars.” He smiles. It makes me frown. I realize what he’s saying.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “You think that’s what makes a relationship work? For two people to be alike?”
“Maybe,” he says. “That’s one thing that always bothered me when we were dating. I always felt like I wasn’t positive enough for you,” he admits.
I think about the absurdity of his words. I love his deep thoughts. I love his theories; they’re fascinating because they’re the opposite of mine. It’s like I’m upside-down when I’m around him, seeing things from an entirely different perspective. Gray challenges me—it’s what I love most about him.
“Do you think it ever bothered me?” I ask him.
“No, but it bothered me,” he says. “I don’t want to feel like I’m stealing from you. I don’t want to drain all your happy juice.”
This is his most ridiculous theory to date.
“Did it ever occur to you that I was happy because of you?” I ask him. “That you helped bring out that side out of me? That you were the main ingredient of my ‘happy juice?’”
“No,” he says simply. He sits back in the chair and stretches out his legs. His feet are a few inches away from mine. “I’m never going to be like you, Dylan.”
“How are we so different?”
He laughs. “How are we not different? You love everyone, and I immensely dislike most people. You love everything and pretty much everything annoys me to some level. I have to work to see things positively. You just have to open your eyes.”
“I do hate things,” I say. “I hate Super Bowl parties. Parades. Dresses. Zoos. The circus.”
“When have you seen a circus?” he asks, doubting my sincerity.
“I haven’t and I don’t intend to. It’s basically a traveling zoo. And I have an unexplained fear of clowns.”
Gray smiles and it charges me with energy. It’s suddenly hard to stay seated. His smile is like fuel.
“Besides, you love all the right things,” I continue. “You love your friends. You love your family, you love good music and good food and you love me more than anyone I’ve ever met.” He winces when I say this, and I catch myself. “I mean, you used to. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know. You just don’t see it. But I think you’re a better person than I am,” I admit.
“That’s insane,” he tells me. My heartbeat picks up when I hear the word come out of his mouth. I remind myself, he didn’t say I was insane. But it’s still promising.
“You always put people first,” I say. “And I don’t. I put myself first. I have for years. That’s one of the reasons why I dropped everything to go after Serena. If I hadn’t met you, I probably wouldn’t have done it. But if something like that had ever happened to your sister, you would have left everything to go after Amanda.”
Gray nods because he knows I’m right. Maybe being alike isn’t what’s best. It’s bringing out the best in each other that matters.
I open my backpack and throw a few things on the bed, looking for my overnight clothes and the toiletries shoved in the bottom. Gray surprises me and sits down on the bed next to me. It squeaks under the additional weight. My internal radar informs me Gray has entered PRZ. I sit on my hands and cross my legs. I try to ignore all my heightened nerve endings.
He reaches for a square CD case next to me. He recognizes it. He opens it and flips through the discs and my cheeks feel hotter than a sunburn. There are ten CD's inside, all mixes he made for me three summers ago.
He looks at me and I suddenly feel naked under his eyes.
“It’s great road trip music,” I say, trying to keep it light.
“These are three years old,” he says. “A
ren’t you getting sick of them?”
Never.
“Maybe a little. You should make me some new ones,” I say and he just looks away. I zip my backpack shut before he notices anything else inside. He leans back on his hands and his eyes trail around the room for a couple of seconds. I watch his chest rise and fall when he breathes. He looks so calm and relaxed while I feel like my blood’s on fire.
“Tell me your bedroom never looked like this,” he says.
I shake my head. “I never really liked pink. I think it even makes flowers look fake.”
“What does your bedroom look like?” he asks me.
I meet his eyes. “My bedroom?” I ask.
“Back at home,” he says. “In Wisconsin,” he clarifies in case I forgot where I’m from.
“Why do you want to know?” I ask.
He shrugs and looks around the room. “It’s just something I never asked you about,” he says. “And I always wondered. Probably because you never settle down, so I was always trying to imagine what a ‘settled down Dylan’ looks like.”
I think back to my parent’s ranch-style house in central Wisconsin.
“It’s a sewing room now,” I say.
“Tell me one random thing you had in it,” Gray says.
“A sex swing,” I say and he raises his eyebrows.
I laugh and he smiles back. I think about the things my mom agreed to stow away in the attic. “You’d probably appreciate my Jack Black box,” I say.
“Your what?”
“It’s a big, black filing box I kept in my room.” I explain that I named it after Jack Black because, A) he’s a brilliant actor and musician, 2) he’s hilarious, and D) he doesn’t care what anybody thinks of him. His self-esteem has a black belt in jujitsu.
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