By the time he pulls out of the parking lot, Mac starts to snore and my eyelids get heavy and I drift off.
We don’t drive very far the next day as everyone is feeling quite tired.
I didn’t get much sleep and apparently neither did Tyler.
Mac is too hungover to drive for long.
Instead, we stop right on the border of Texas and New Mexico at another one-star motel.
For about two hours leading up to stopping, Tyler and Mac talk about anything and everything; sports, politics, television, movies, and even art.
In case you’re wondering, Tyler likes impressionism and modern 20th-century while Mac prefers the Dutch Masters.
Apparently, there was a girl that Mac dated who was an artist and she taught him all about the history of art.
By the time we get to our next destination, I’m getting pretty sick of being the third wheel. Mac and I are actually getting along, joking around a bit, but the car trip is still not going as I had planned.
I thought that this would be a time for Tyler and me to connect and really get to know each other, but instead I’m sharing the precious time that I have with him with a third-party.
In fact, sometimes it feels like I’m the one tagging on their road trip.
We stop by a gas station to get some booze. When we get to the room, I’m not surprised to see another field out back. These motels along the interstate always seem to be surrounded by wide open spaces.
There are a few other motels and hotels along with some diners and fast food restaurants, catering to weary travelers, but that’s usually it.
No city.
No town.
Not even a shopping plaza.
There are fewer people out here, but as a result we are also more noticeable. When Tyler suggested that we stay in one of the cities we passed, I shut him down.
I don’t have a lot of money to spare and we are already spending seventy bucks a night. A motel that cheap in the city is going to be way worse than the ones along the interstate. They’ll probably even be populated with people who tend to attract police attention and that is the last thing I want, to be caught in the crossfire.
Again, I want it to just be the two of us and, again, I’m stuck sharing a room with both of them.
A part of me wishes that Mac would go away and go drinking again, but another part of me wishes that he would stay put so we can get there as safely as possible.
While it’s still light out, I decide to leave them with their beers and go on a walk to clear my head.
“Where are you going to go?” Tyler asks when I grab my purse. “There’s just a road, that’s it up ahead.”
“I don’t know. I’m getting a little bit claustrophobic being in the car and then being stuck here in this little room.”
They are each three beers in and I wonder if the couple of six packs that we have left is going to be enough.
I want Tyler to follow me, but he doesn’t.
I don’t wait long.
I don’t know how long I can make it out here in the cold but a part of it feels almost refreshing and relaxing. The wind picks up in the desert but still I go further and further behind the parking lot.
Outside, I admire the beautiful colors of the Southwest. The sky is some sort of majestic color of light blue, fuchsia pink, and little sprays of red. There are a few cacti here and there, sprouting up all covered in flowers.
Spring is supposed to be the most beautiful time in this region and I wish that we were going through the Grand Canyon or Tucson on our way to California.
I have never seen a saguaro cactus in real life and I have only viewed the Grand Canyon on Google. Both seem to be like these magical otherworld beings that only exist in another dimension or perhaps in another life.
When I get tired of walking, I find a little bit of shelter in the curve of the land and kneel behind a puffy shrub of creosote.
I sit down and pull out a yellow notebook. I’ve always had this dream of one day writing something, but when it came right down to it, I never could.
The truth is that I never really tried, but India has always encouraged me to put my thoughts on paper and I figure now is as good a time as any.
I consider the fact that if someone finds this journal, then they will probably use it against me, especially if that someone is a law enforcement officer.
So, I don’t want to write anything specific. I want to write in metaphors and yet no metaphors come.
I sit for a while staring at the blank piece of paper. The paper is thick with many imperfections. The edges are uneven, almost as if they have been ripped.
The cover itself is made from vegan leather and is about the size of a mass-market paperback. I got it on a whim at a gift store and paid way too much for it. It’s one of those beautiful journals that is almost too gorgeous to actually mess up with written words.
I press the pen onto the paper and try to make the first word, but nothing comes.
I’m not a poet.
I’m not someone who can write in metaphors.
I’m not someone who can write one thing and have it mean another.
Maybe I don’t have to.
Something else occurs to me. What if I were to just write and then get rid of the pages? I can get it all out on paper, the truth, and I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding it.
I turn the first page, hesitate only for a moment, and then begin.
I start from the beginning.
I don’t think about the words, I just relay the feelings and everything that happened.
Occasionally, I’m tempted to lie. I’m tempted to write about how Tyler took me hostage and that I’m really here against my will, but that would be fiction and I can’t bring myself to do it.
The truth is okay, I tell myself. I won’t hang onto these pages for long.
I just need to get it all out.
I write until my hand cramps and my fingers turn to ice.
“Hey!” I yell. Mac snatches the journal from me so suddenly that my pen leaves a thick, black line down the center of the page, evidence of my protest.
“What are you doing?” I gasp.
I reach over to get it back from him but he holds it over my head as if we were back in elementary school.
Whenever I try to reach for it, he keeps turning the pages, reading bits and pieces here and there and shaking his head.
“You can’t do this,” he says.
I jump up, trying to grab it away from him, but again he eludes me.
He is faster, stronger, and taller than I am and now he’s holding one of the most precious things I own.
“You can’t write this,” Mac says.
“You don’t even know what it says, you didn’t even read it.”
“I can read more if you want,” he offers.
“Fuck you,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“You can’t write this. You’re supposed to be a hostage. If anyone finds this, then they’ll never believe you.”
“I know,” I mumble softly.
“Since we have no idea if we will be caught or when, I’m going to do something to protect you against yourself.” He grabs the pages and violently rips them out.
I gasp, unable to believe my eyes.
Is this really happening?
“What are you doing?”
He takes out a lighter and starts a flame.
I reach over to stop him.
He jumps away from me and the flame goes out.
“You know I have to do this, Isabelle.”
“No, you don’t. That’s mine.”
“Let me ask you a question,” he says seriously, looking deep into my eyes. “When the front desk clerks ask you who you’re traveling with, you give them fake names. You protect Tyler’s identity. You protect mine.”
“Is that a question?” I ask after a moment, crossing my arms across my chest.
“You do that to protect us,” he says without looking away from me
.
His gaze is disarming.
There’s an intensity there that I haven’t seen before.
He was always so casual and easy-going, but I had no idea that he had this other side to him.
“You got mad at us for going out to the diner and you got upset when I went out to the bar. I know that you acted that way because you care. You don’t want us to get caught. Well, I’m doing this for you, too.”
He flips the top and lights the corner of the pages in his hands.
“I can’t have this confession out here. If we get caught, they’ll probably kill us. Shoot us point blank. With you, they’ll have questions. They won’t want to believe that you have been held captive this whole time. You’ll need to prove it to them that you were. Things like this, mistakes like these,” Mac says, holding up the burning papers to my face, “they’re going to put you away for life.”
I watch the pages burn knowing that he’s right.
Besides, why does it matter? I have written the words down. The venom has been expelled out of me.
The mere act of writing the truth made everything better.
We walk back to the motel and just when I step on the first stair, Mac whispers, “So, who do you owe the debt to?”
My heart sinks.
It drops into the lower part of my stomach and then even further down my body.
My blood runs cold and I glance over at him.
He had skimmed the pages, but I had no idea that he had read that page.
I had only written about the debt a little bit, briefly touching on it, but it must’ve been enough.
“It’s your mother’s debt, right?” he asks. “You said that she had disappeared.”
I shake my head and say, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about a lot of things,” Mac says, “but it doesn’t change the fact that they get talked about when necessary.”
“That’s my problem. It doesn’t concern you.”
“No, I beg to differ. We’re running for our lives. Our faces are plastered all over primetime. Everyone is looking for us. If you owe a debt to someone, we need to know about it. At least I do.”
I shake my head and mock, “I bet you wish you hadn’t burned all those pages now, don’t you?”
17
Tyler
When we fight...
Mac says that he’s going out for a smoke, but he doesn’t stay on the landing or out front. Instead, he disappears somewhere out back, following a trail.
I want to follow him, but I don’t want to pry. Besides, the beers are hitting me pretty well and I’m not sure any comments that I’m going to make will do anyone any good.
I take a few deep breaths, lean back against the limpest pillow I’ve ever had, and stare at the television as I flip through the channels.
I don’t know how much time passes or why they both come in through the door at the same time.
I’m drunk but not enough to not sense the tension between them.
Mac covers it with a joke and Isabelle jumps in front of her computer screen. The fact that we’re staying in less than 100 square feet is not making this trip any easier.
“Listen, I’m going to head out,” Mac says, grabbing his wallet.
It’s filled with money that he borrowed from me and a $100 bill that the girl he met last night had given him.
If I didn’t know him, I’d suspect that the money was stolen, but I know how charming and sweet he can be and how women will fall over backward to help him.
I glance over at Isabelle, expecting her to try to stop him.
She doesn’t.
I don’t either.
It’s not worth the energy when the outcome will be the same.
Besides, I want some alone time with her.
A few moments later, Mac exits without another word and Isabelle and I remain, listening to the silence that he leaves behind.
“What happened?” I ask.
She buries her head behind her laptop, pretending not to hear me.
I ask her again, and again she ignores me.
“Did you have a fight? Did he do something?” I ask.
“Yeah, he did something.”
I clench my fists.
He hurt her.
He could have any woman he wants except her. She said no and he pushed himself on her.
“He burned my journal,” she says with tears in her eyes.
My hand opens up as I try to process what she just said.
“So, he didn’t attack you?”
She stares at me, shaking her head and saying, “Yes, he did. He grabbed my journal, ripped the pages out of it, and then burned them.”
“Okay, I understand. I just got scared that maybe he put his hands on you.”
“Typical,” she says sarcastically. “You don’t give a shit about what he actually did because you assume that at least he didn’t do something way worse.”
“That’s not what I said,” I protest.
I hate this anger that transpires between us. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but Mac’s presence seems to be bringing out the worst in us.
I ask her about the journal and she relays the details.
I try not to be relieved by what Mac did, but I am.
I offer her sympathy but she doesn’t accept it. I’m not a very good liar. If the Pittsburgh Police Department knew that, then none of this would’ve ever happened.
“Do you think that he did the right thing?” she says more as a statement rather than a question. Or perhaps, it’s an accusation?
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t want to lie to her, but I also don’t want to have another fight. We don’t have too much time together and that time needs to be special.
Honeymoon sort of special.
After all, I am trying to figure out if she will be the one person to know my whereabouts after I disappear for good or if she will be like the rest of them; clueless about the man I’m about to become.
“I was just writing down my thoughts. It was cathartic,” Isabelle says after a long pause. “My therapist said it would help and it did. I have no intentions of keeping that journal or showing it to anyone.”
“What if—” I start to say, but she cuts me off.
“I know. What if the cops stop us? What if the FBI finds it? Then they’ll know that I’m not really your hostage. Mac has already given me a long lecture about this. Right before he burned the pages.”
“He shouldn’t have done it like that but I’m glad he did it.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t want those pages to exist one moment longer than they had to. It’s proof that your reasons for being here are false. He was just trying to protect you.”
“I know,” she repeats herself.
I nod, unsure as to what else to say.
“I doubt that he did it for that reason though,” Isabelle says. “He’s out at a bar somewhere picking up a girl. She’s going to gaze into his eyes, stare at his face, while they do God knows what. She’s going to remember what he looks like. She may not recognize him now, but if she ever sees his face on the news anytime in the future, she’ll remember.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
“That’s why I’m so pissed. He thinks that it’s okay for him to take all of these risks but God forbid I write down one honest truth in my journal and he goes ape shit.”
I’m getting tired of this conversation. As much as I enjoy Mac’s company, he has been a wedge in our relationship.
Isabelle is right.
His presence is only adding risk to our travels.
We would probably be a lot further along without him, but that doesn’t change the fact that I owe him.
“I can’t just leave him,” I say.
“I’m not saying leave him.”
“Well, I can’t control him either. What do you want me to do?”
She throws her hands up in the air as a sign of surrender.
Isabelle stays up late tonight. I climb under the covers and turn off the lights.
I want to touch her, but she stays by the dining room table, typing away on her computer.
I hope she’s not writing her confession, but I decide to just give her space.
Finally, she comes to bed.
“Hi,” she whispers.
Her voice is soft and quiet.
There’s a calmness in it now.
Perhaps even a longing.
I turn around and put my arm around her shoulder.
That’s when I notice that she’s not wearing a shirt. I run my hand all the way up to her neck, feeling the bareness of her skin with the back of my hand.
It’s cool and soft.
As I reach down slowly, my fingers find her breasts and I give them a little squeeze.
A moment later, our lips touch. Her mouth opens and our tongues intertwine.
This time is different than the way it was before.
I'm not angry at her and she's not mad at me.
We don't need to take our frustrations out on our bodies. Instead, we just lose ourselves in each other.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The models gracing the covers of Vogue have nothing on her and never will.
She is perfection and I feel it in my soul.
Our kiss is slow and passionate.
It's the kind that overwhelms all of your senses and yet makes you feel like you are home because you belong.
My mouth travels softly down her neck toward her collarbone. Her lips are so soft that I can feel her breath as she exhales.
I can see the moonlight peeking through the blinds, turning the whole room a shade of light blue.
I peel off her clothes slowly, meticulously.
My hands travel up and down her body feeling each curve.
Whenever she tries to reach over and touch me, I stop her.
“This is going to be all about you,” I whisper as I open her legs.
I take my time kissing her on her inner thighs first and then slowly make my way closer and closer to her core.
I feel her body wanting me.
Her whole body throbbing for mine.
The Perfect Cover Page 8