Breakdown (Crash into Me)

by Amanda Lance

  From the corner of my eye, William nodded, taking his time before speaking again. “Have you been sad for a long time, Jumper?”

  “Since my senior year of high school. Going on three years now, I guess.” I flinched at my own words, the way I sounded like a petty child. There were people who spent their entire lives in captivity, children who did nothing but live painful lives and die terrible deaths, people trapped in their own bodies. And I was complaining about a few months of depression? “I know that doesn’t seem like a long time in the prospect of things—”

  “No,” William scoffed. “You don’t have to justify it to me.”

  “I tried to feel better,” I explained. “I really did. It just—got worse.” Now I laughed at the memory of it, the pettiness of it all. “I read self-help books, tried religion, meditation, feng shui, even changing my diet to feel better, nothing seemed to work. I only really gave up about a month ago.”

  “What about your friends?” he asked angrily. “Your family?” Though I had only known him for a week, the change in his temperament surprised me more than even the tattoos. “What are they doing to help you out?”

  I hung my head in outright shame. Though I hadn’t intended to annoy him, certainly not anger him in anyway, I clearly had. William wasn’t even bothering to try and hide how mad he was now. With his face scrunched up he leaned forward on the couch and tapped his thumbs together impatiently.

  “Friends?” I tried not to laugh. “The people I used to hang out with in high school were the closest things to friends I had, but we basically stopped talking after graduation. And my family?” I considered my words carefully before continuing. “There’s just my parents. My dad is a good guy, just awkward with heavy stuff. If my mom knew…” I shook my head, unable to think on it any longer. Did straightjackets come in individual sizes, or were they a one size fits all sort of thing? If Mom ever got wind that I wanted to hurt myself, I would definitely find out.

  “You don’t have anybody to talk to.”

  By the tone of his voice, I knew it wasn’t a question.

  “I’ve thought about visiting a general practitioner for some medicine or something.” I shrugged. How much complaining was too much? When would he get tired of being polite and tell me to shut up? “But I’d probably just get a referral, which is expensive. And with my mom going through my stuff all the time—”

  Finally, smiling again William leaned back into the couch, his face laughing but his body still tensed. “Wait, wait—your mom goes through your stuff?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe your problem isn’t that you’re depressed and more that you need to get the hell out of your parents’ house.”

  I followed suit, imitating his movements by leaning back into the couch and letting the thick cushions soak me in. “I don’t make that much at the bakery. Believe me, if I could trade rent for cupcakes, I gladly would.”

  “What about school?”

  I shrugged. “What about it?”

  “Don’t they have counselors you could talk to? You gotta get something for all that tuition you pay, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, do me a favor and think about it, Jumper. If you’re not going to talk to me, you should talk to somebody.”

  “Sure,” I lied. “I’ll think about it.” The fact of the matter was, however, that I had already thought about it, had actively researched the mental health services my school offered to full-time students more than once, but was too afraid to pursue any of the resources available to me. With Dad an active member of his alumni committee, and plenty of acquaintances working in the university itself, I had no way of knowing it wouldn’t get back to him somehow.

  But how could I tell William that when I had burdened him with so many of my problems already? When I had inconvenienced him and been nothing but a pain in the ass? How could I tell him how easy he was to talk to? That I hadn’t had someone to talk to in so long—really talk to—that I thought I might burst out any second with all my secrets?

  “When, ah, when I picked you up, I noticed there wasn’t anybody around… does that mean you’re all alone in that big house?”

  “Usually am.”

  “You wanna spend the night here?” Rushed and desperate, he was quick to rebuke himself, a trait that I did take as gentlemanly. “I’ll take the couch obviously. The bed isn’t comfortable, but you’re more than welcome to it.”

  “No… um, I’ll take the couch. I’d feel bad about throwing you out of your own bed.”

  “You really would have been doing me a favor, Jumper. That bed really is damned uncomfortable.”

  I shifted uncomfortably under his smile. Still, I couldn’t deny that the invitation, even the consideration of my general wellbeing was flattering. “Now I really want the sofa.”

  He grinned at me. “You got it, Jumper.”

  Disappearing into what I assumed was his bedroom, he returned ten seconds later with a pillow that was so flat I could tell just by looking at it that it wouldn’t do anyone much good. Still, when he threw it at me, I caught it gratefully, resisting the temptation to bury my face in it and inhale the smell of him.

  “Thanks for letting me stay.” I smiled sheepishly and slipped off my shoes. “I haven’t had a sleepover since I was a little girl.”

  William shouted over the sound of running water. “It’s been a long time for me too”

  With the safety of being alone, I let myself lie down on the couch, sliding down and adjusting until I found a spot that was somewhat comfortable. There was still a spring digging into the back of my neck, but the pillow immensely helped. I smiled into it and closed my eyes. I hadn’t released until just then how truly tired I was.

  “Since you’ve had a sleepover or been a little girl?”

  William laughed and gargled simultaneously, and there was something insanely sexy about a guy who took care of his teeth but had little welfare for the rest of himself.

  “Both!”

  I was still laughing when he came back in the room. “You need anything else, Jumper?” William leaned against the doorway, his eyes tense while he watched me. “Blankets? Pillows?”

  “A rubber room?” He didn’t smile quite the way I hoped, so I closed my eyes and sighed. “No thanks, I’m alright.”

  William bumped his foot against the archway. “If, ah, you change your mind or anything, don’t hesitate to wake me up.”

  I nodded, sleep already starting to take over even as I heard him move into his bedroom. As much as I wanted to give in to my heavy eyes and the semi-comfortable couch, a thought came over me. My eyes sprung open, blinking hard at the new dark of the place.

  “Hey, William?”

  “Yeah?”

  I loosened my grip on the pillow and shut my eyes again. Without even trying, I could picture William making the mattress squeak beneath him as he tried to get comfortable on his bed. I wanted to continue imagining whether or not he slept with his shirt on, with socks or without, did he like lots of blankets when he slept or didn’t he? Did the guy even own a pair of pajamas?

  “I have to be to work by six.”

  “Don’t worry, Jumper.” Hearing his smile in the dark made me smile too. “I’ll get you wherever you need to be.”

  Because of the cold, gray weather, the bakery was crowded early and quickly. So much so in fact that the guys in the back could barely catch up to the orders of pumpernickel and rye, while the other counter girl and I ran over each other more than once trying to ring up orders, make coffee, and refill the display counter.

  Working those first few hours in the morning made it that much easier to ignore the pain in my hand. Still, I did my best not to use it as much as possible, trying to hold it over my head, and even swiping a couple of Tylenol from a drawer in my manager’s office when I got the chance. Yet, when the pain did start to subside, I was forced to think about William’s insistence on changing the bandage on my hand before he drove me to work, how the sound of his sh
ower was a decent way to wake up, and how dark his hair looked when wet.

  At some point in the middle of my daydreams about him, it occurred to me that because of my vehicle situation I had no way to get home. Not only that, but my phone hadn’t been charged in nearly a day, so I couldn’t even call someone for a ride—even if I had someone to call.

  For an instant, I thought about calling William, even Tabby when I was at my most desperate, but considering I had burdened him so much already, and decided Tabby was probably working, I put both of those ideas out of my mind quickly and went back to work. Maybe, if worse came to worse, I could walk the thirteen or so miles back home. Even if Mom was home from St. Louis already, I was sure I didn’t want to try and explain why I didn’t have my car with me.

  I cleaned the kitchen slowly, feeling little purpose in the work and even less motivation given that I was working with one hand. Would it be ironic if I got hit by a car on the walk home? Or just kind of messed-up? The thought was less funny than I expected it to be, sadder instead. Would William assume I had killed myself? Died on purpose? Would he be disappointed in me? Sad?

  I thought about it as I finished with the kitchen, running the oversized duster around the corners of the ceiling to stall for more time. It had been raining most of the day, with no real signs of stopping, and yet walking home in the rain still seemed better than dealing with my mom. Hoping the rain might at least slow down, I stayed on, doing even more menial tasks like reorganizing the refrigerator and cleaning the bottom of the cash register until even my manager was trying to boot me out the door. I was hoping he’d kind of get the hint I needed a ride home, but he was oblivious and drove away as soon as the door was shut and locked behind us.

  Naturally, with my luck, I had only a light jacket and nothing water repellent. I cursed and watched a curbside puddle fill up. Standing under the storefront bodega, I watch the rain for a long time, listening to the sound of pitter pattering all around me and absorbing the rain through my yeast covered shoes. What would William think about bad smelling feet, I wondered? And what did he think about movie remakes? About pop-culture and phone apps? Furthermore, what did William Do-gooder O’Reilly think about vegetarianism and the criminal justice system? What did he think about the upcoming elections? Did he think about them at all? What did he think about girls who worked at strip clubs? About Italian girls who could make amazing bomboloni from scratch, but couldn’t throw a ziti together to save her life?

  What did William think about girls who had been raped?

  I stared into the growing puddle for so long that when I looked up and saw my car I instantly assumed it was some kind of mirage—a vision my imagination had created as a punishment for straining my eyes. I stepped off the sidewalk and out into the rain, becoming drenched almost instantly. The dented passenger door and rear license plate were familiar, but it still seemed too good to be true.

  I looked around before I tested the door. It was unlocked. It felt like my car, smelled like my car, but the seat was way too far back, the rear-view mirror adjusted for someone at least six inches taller than me. Instinctive, I grabbed the piece of notebook paper that sat on the dash.

  Jumper—

  I changed the oil and the filter. Text me when you get a chance.

  —Billy

  PS: What kind of modern girl doesn’t carry around a phone charger?

  Strange thoughts and questions drifted through my head all the way back home. The mere idea that William had gone out of his way—yet again—to do something nice for me had not yet lost its novelty thrill. Yet as I did a happy dance in my seat, I couldn’t quiet that nagging little voice in my head that asked how he had gotten access to my car in the first place. Sure I had kept my keys in the garage, a set of them anyway. But my car itself had been locked, a habit bred into me after years of hassling by Mom and Dad.

  I told myself I had merely forgotten to set the security system and kept right on doing my dance.

  Chapter Eleven

  I went to text him the second I was in the door. Plugging in my phone, I sat on Mom’s antique sofa while I was still covered in dried flour batter and the smell of yeast was starting to come through my shoes and jeans. Truth be told, I was barely aware I was even doing it, that subconscious desire to make her mad getting pushed through the colander when my head was full of William and racing. When I realized it, I giggled to myself and leaned back. The sofa wasn’t comfortable at all, and not nearly as pretty as Mom thought—really, a waste of space and money.

  Me: You didn’t have to bring me my car.

  Do-gooder: No excuse for giving yourself pneumonia, Jumper.

  How did he know I would walk home? That I would do that before calling anyone else, even him? Did he already know how prideful I was? Or was I just that obvious?

  Do-gooder: But I’ll take that as a thank you.

  Me: I take it you fixed the filter? What do I owe you for that?

  Do-gooder: A dozen cookies.

  You: Be serious.

  Do-gooder: 10,000 cookies.

  I laughed. Stopping myself and starting again. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to laugh at something clever? Adorable even? I had never committed a terrible crime, had never done anything really wrong, unless being boring was considered a sin. Why was I so hesitant to let myself laugh if I wanted to? Was it my obligation to death that made me feel guilty? That strange commitment I had made to myself not to feel anymore mortal pain? Maybe I was afraid of laughing. In that same passive-aggressive way I had chosen Mom’s forbidden sofa to sit on, somewhere in the back of my mind I was terrified that laughing would lead to something terrible.

  Me: You’re impossible.

  Do-gooder: Nope. Just hungry.

  Silently and out loud I cursed at myself. If I had thought things through a little better, I could have baked something just before I left work, putting it aside and saving it for later—a solid excuse to see him on platonic terms.

  Me: Do you not eat before racing?

  Do-gooder: No races tonight because of the weather.

  My spirits fell. Instead of cursing William though, I cursed myself; cursed myself for letting my hopes get so high, and for not even taking the weather into consideration.

  Do-gooder: I was gonna drag you to a Steve McQueen double feature, but I got called into work tonight.

  Now I was mad. A garage open on a Saturday night? Unlikely. If William was going out with one of his girlfriends, or even one of the guys, why did he feel the need to lie about it? We had only known each other a week. And, admittedly, while he was growing more important to me, I wasn’t quite so crazy enough to think that I meant anything to him. For a second I was insulted. Did I really come off as violence against others type? Myself? Sure. But other people?

  Do-gooder: Are you still with me, Jumper?

  Me: Yeah. Thanks again for my car. I owe you one.

  Before I could be tempted to obsess anymore, I turned the phone off and left it in the sitting room, closing the doors firmly behind me. Though I had not earned it, and certainly did not deserve it, I felt a sort of claim on William, a possessiveness that I did not understand but was unable to shrug off. More than likely, I told myself, he had been with a couple dozen women, maybe even a hundred… and if he was telling the truth about his family history, then his kindness towards me suggested he looked at me like just another sibling—one of many sisters to pick on him.

  Not that I needed anything else. Little more than a week ago I didn’t even have a friend to my name, and if William was the person I hoped he was, then having his friendship in my corner put me at a far greater advantage than where I was at before. I sighed and peeled my clothes off, taking great care, as usual, to avoid looking at my body in the mirror. Perhaps it was better William wasn’t interested in me that way. After all, it had been a year and a half and I still couldn’t stand to look at myself. How could I expect anyone else to? More to the point, if I wanted to be a good friend, I couldn’t very well have expected
him to donate his entire weekend to the Overpass Jumper Foundation.

  After I showered I went back downstairs, staring at the sitting room doors for only a few seconds before I made myself walk away. From Dad’s office, I turned on NPR and listened to a program about the life of Julia Childs. Before long, however, I had the butter and sugar out, mixing them together with the eggs, flour, and vanilla. Just like earlier that week, I watched the agitator turn the mix into a complete batter, imagining they were tires, the batter wet ground they were spinning out in. I did this long after the flour had blended in, and my arm grew tired from holding the bowl in the crutch of my elbow.

  Every now and then, I looked to the blister on my hand, thinking that I had not bandaged it nearly as well as William, though still slightly proud of myself for the effort. Instead of letting the wound get any worse like I might have a week ago, I cleaned it carefully, concealing it with gauze so the blister wouldn’t open while I was cooking. Though I admittedly did it mostly for the sake of William—thinking it would have been a shame to let the wound get infected when he had done so much to prevent it from doing so. There was the smallest part of me that wanted it to heal for myself, wanted it to go away just so I wouldn’t have to look at the scar. I was so immersed in the thoughts of it that I didn’t even hear the garage door opener, hardly even heard the sound of the patio door open until I heard the wheels of her suitcase on the floor.

  “Hello?” her voice called out from the sunroom. I sighed and unplugged the mixer, instantly feeling annoyed though I had no real reason to be so.