I’ll Meet You There

by Heather Demetrios

  “I like the part where you said we step back. And I hate to break it to you, but you’re not jumping this train tonight.”

  Or ever. What the hell was he thinking?

  Josh stood up as the train’s headlight came into view. “Give me a little credit, Sky. I’m not gonna try to do it in the dark. Even with two legs, that’d be hard as hell.”

  I decided to table this discussion for later. Because it was sounding to me like he intended to try it when it wasn’t dark—and there was no way that would end well for him.

  He put an arm across me as we stepped back, like you do with a passenger when you’re driving and you suddenly hit the brakes. The train wasn’t that fast—but way too fast to hitch a ride on. It chugged by, a monstrous mass of creaking, rusted metal with open boxcars like dark mouths that swallowed the night as they whipped by.

  Josh closed his eyes, turned his face toward the wind the train had churned up. I watched him, my eyes tracing his jaw, the bridge of his nose, his chin.

  His lips.

  He almost looked at peace. Almost. I tore my gaze away from him, stared at the train. My body was suddenly this alive, buzzing thing I had no control over anymore. Maybe I was in as much danger of jumping as he was. For a second, it felt like anything could happen. Anything.

  The last of the boxcars passed us, leaving a perfect, complete silence. Josh turned to me. “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?”

  I opened my mouth to say San Francisco or maybe Madrid—somewhere exotic. But what came out was, “Here. Right here.”

  I looked at him, surprised. He held my eyes for a minute, then looked in the direction the train was going.

  “Me too.”

  Fuck, I thought. Just that—fuck.

  chapter eighteen

  It was Florence Nightingale syndrome—it had to be. That’s the only explanation for why I was suddenly obsessed with Josh Mitchell. Like in A Farewell to Arms, I was a nurse falling for her patient. Obviously I wasn’t Josh’s nurse or whatever (insert crude Dylan joke about “playing doctor”), but ever since graduation, I felt like I’d been trying to take care of him. Like inviting him to Leo’s or going after him the night of the Fourth. But I was supposed to be with a slightly geeky, yet totally adorable San Franciscan who loved art and wanted to use words like chiaroscuro and proletariat and existentialism. Josh was the past, and all I’d ever cared about was the future. And, anyway, that didn’t matter because he was probably going back to his base at the end of the summer, and I was going to school.

  Right?

  If that night by the train tracks taught me anything, it was that no matter how much you tried to get out of Creek View, it was gonna find a way to get its claws into you. What I’d said—that being by those train tracks with Josh was the only place in the whole world that I wanted to be—was the push I needed. I was getting out of Creek View in less than two months, and nothing was going to stop me.

  A few days after the Fourth, I put my newest escape plan into action. As soon as my shift ended at the Paradise, I changed into the skirt and silk tank top I’d worn for graduation, then double-checked the documents in the manila folder I’d left on the front seat of my car. Inside was an application for food stamps that had my mother’s signature on the bottom (forged), two copies of our recent pay stubs, a copy of our utility bills, and my transcripts. I didn’t need the transcripts, but I thought the 4.0 might help me if I ran into trouble at social services.

  I pulled onto the highway, my blouse already sticking to my back with sweat. I leaned forward and let the breeze blow over me. Someday, I was going to have a car with air-conditioning. Maybe, I thought, I should make that my life’s goal. It seemed manageable.

  The sun beat down on me, burning my left arm as I traveled north on the highway. It wasn’t busy, just the usual flow of traffic—mostly big rigs and dusty pickups, with a smattering of commuters and travelers. I passed road-tripping families in minivans with bumper stickers like MY KID IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT (FILL IN THE BLANK) or SKI MAMMOTH. I envied the kids in front of me with their feet propped up on the backs of their parents’ seats, watching DVDs. I couldn’t even imagine a life like that. To me, they were the ones in a movie.

  For a while I got stuck behind a big rig, and I eased out from behind it, speeding by as quickly as I could. It didn’t matter how many of those trucks I saw—they would always make me think of Dad. What if he hadn’t had those last few beers before he got in his truck? What if someone had given him a ride home? What if the big rig had stopped for gas instead of driving past Ray’s at the same time my dad was pulling out? Whatifwhatifwhatif?

  My phone rang, and I checked my rearview mirror to make sure there weren’t any Highway Patrol dudes sneaking around. I grabbed it out of my cup holder and answered, careful to keep my eyes on the road.

  “What’s up, lady?” Dylan said.

  “I’m on the road, endangering my life by talking on a cell phone.”

  “I’m guessing that’s code for hurry up. Where are you going?”

  “Long story.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I was applying for food stamps, even though Dylan and her mom had used them plenty of times. To me, it felt like such a failure. I never thought my mom and I would get that low. I wasn’t ready to admit defeat.

  “Okay, well, could you please, please babysit my little man tonight? Jesse’s taking me to Fresno for dinner and a movie.”

  “Fancy,” I said. “What’s the occasion?”

  She said something, but I couldn’t catch it over the wind.

  “Huh?”

  I pressed the phone hard against my ear.

  “Three-year anniversary, remember?”

  “Oh! Awesome. Sure, I’ll watch Sean. What time?”

  “Six? I was thinking maybe—”

  My car started making a funny sound, and I groaned. “Sounds good, Dyl. Sorry, I better go. My car sounds like it’s trying to cough up a fur ball.”

  “Yikes. Okay, hurry back, then.”

  I hung up and finished the rest of the drive listening to a classical CD that never failed to chill me out, trying not to think too much about the sounds my car was making. I wondered what Bach would have thought if he’d looked into the future and seen my sweaty Hicksville self driving my broke-ass car through the middle of nowhere, swaying in my seat to his Concerto in Whatever Minor. I collaged a few unicorns onto the bland scenery, just because, and kept swaying.

  An hour later, my exit came up. As I pulled into the social services parking lot, I had to smile because, seriously, how many people roll up to get food stamps after collaging imaginary unicorns? I killed the engine, hoping the acrid, burned-rubber smell that was spiking the air wasn’t coming from my car. I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror and pulled at my hair to get it into something resembling a neat bun, then wiped my sweaty face with a fast-food napkin. The napkin came away coated with grime. I sighed, then grabbed my folder of paperwork and put my hand on the door handle. My fingers hesitated, the folder damp under my palms. Move, I told myself. But I couldn’t.

  People walked in and out of the low building, none of them looking particularly better or worse off than me. Kids shuffled after their parents, a young woman got on her cell phone and immediately started laughing. An old man squinted into the sun, scanning the parking lot for his car. Nothing about the building or the people screamed Welfare, but I couldn’t get out. As the minutes ticked by, I watched the tinted glass door, telling myself that after the next person, I was going in. It became a game, only not the fun kind.

  Okay, the next time a girl with a ponytail goes in, so do you.

  After the overweight dude in the Mazda comes back out—

  Once three people wearing any red exit the building—

  Was I really gonna do this? Have my mom get food stamps so I could waltz off to some fancy college while she wasted away in our trailer? I imagined her at the grocery store, having to use thos
e checks that everyone knew were for poor people. They’d stare at her, knowing. Maybe they’d judge her, wonder why their tax dollars had to pay for her milk and chicken breasts. It would be like when I had to get free lunches at school—which, by the way, never felt free because they cost you your pride. They’d give us poor kids these little green tickets, and that’s what you handed the lunch lady. You could only use them for certain foods, stand in certain lines. So as soon as you brought that ticket out, everyone knew what you were, who you were. Or they thought they did, which was bad enough.

  I let my hand fall from the door and closed my eyes. The sun beat down so hard on the metal roof of my car that I shivered. I made myself concentrate on the exact quality of the heat. On the lines the sweat traveled down my body. Sweat on the backs of my knees, between my thighs, dripping into the creases of my elbows, sliding along my upper lip. I tasted like the ocean. I boiled away, my hopes rising out of me like steam.

  I thought of the cool, fresh air of the city I’d always dreamed of living in. The art museums and trolleys and the mysterious fog that blanketed it. I could almost smell the cappuccinos I’d planned to drink in bohemian cafés or hear the indie music in the bookstores I would spend my free time in. I pictured the friends I’d make, my kindred art people, and the dorm room I was supposed to move into. I’d already bought a cute desk lamp, that pretty comforter. A cork board.

  I thought of the receipts, stacked neatly on the desk in my bedroom.

  It wasn’t too late to return all of it.

  JOSH

  Got an e-mail from Tyler. They lost Gomez yesterday. His daughter would be, what, three or four now, right? Fuck. Teresa must be losing her mind. Every picture I ever saw of him and his wife, she was kissing him, smiling so big. Fuck. Guess you two are catching up on old times now, shooting the shit while you look down at the rest of us. This is why I don’t check my e-mail too much. Never know what the hell it’s gonna say when you open it up. When it all first went down, I couldn’t handle the hang-in-there-bro e-mails or the killed-a-hajji-for-you-today ones. Guys asking me how I am, trying to get me to accept Jesus into my heart or just telling me what’s up over there and who else got fucked like you and me during the second deployment. But lately I’ve been reading more, sending more. Tyler said the unit’s going on leave in a couple of weeks. Wanted to know if I’d come down to Camp Pendleton to say hi and all that shit. Man, I just … it’d be great. And not great. You know. I can hear our voices, talking about home: I miss walking around barefoot (Jones). I miss Starbucks (Harrison). I miss sex—that’s my Starbucks (Sharpe, of course—horniest dude on the planet). I miss Hannah (you), and we all called you a pussy and you flipped us off. I didn’t miss much. I think, more than anything, I missed knowing I had a hell of a good chance of waking up this side of heaven. Tyler said everyone was planning on having a picnic or something and there was gonna be a memorial for the guys that didn’t make it this tour. I don’t think I can handle that. Tyler probably knew that because at the end of the e-mail he was all, Dude, it’s not your fault. Semper Fi, motherfucker. Come on out. We miss you. Time to move on, buddy. I don’t really know what it means to move on, but lately, with Sky, I’m starting to feel like I want to because when I look at her, I don’t see you or the war or any of the shit in my head. I just see her, and it’s like suddenly I can breathe again after holding my breath for so long.

  chapter nineteen

  I only managed to get ten minutes down the road before white smoke started pouring out from under the hood.

  “No. No. Nononononononono!” I yelled.

  I kept petting the dashboard as though I could make my car change its mind and suddenly start behaving, but soon I could barely see out the windshield and I had to pull off the road. All there was for miles were fields and orchards and vineyards. Cars sped by as I got out and went over to the hood, dust whipping into my eyes, tangling my hair. The sun was deadweight, bleeding all over me so that I could barely breathe. I popped the hood but couldn’t even open it, the metal was so hot.

  “Fuck!”

  I kicked the front bumper. I kicked it again and again and again, cursing while smoke billowed around the front of the car. I kicked until I was worried I’d broken a toe and then I sank down to the dirt near the passenger door. Tiny pebbles dug into my skin, ripped the cheap fabric of my skirt. I looked down at my feet—my one nice pair of shoes were so scuffed they were no longer my one nice pair of shoes.

  I broke. Shards of bone and scraps of skin and fuck this life.

  I cried harder than when Dad died or Dylan got pregnant. I cried so hard I thought I might crack a rib, those sobs like hurricanes that came up from my stomach. I wanted to punch myself for being such a baby.

  Instead, I leaned into the car and grabbed my phone, biting my tongue until the tears stopped. Then I dialed. I hated doing it, but Creek View only had one auto shop. Blake picked up on the first ring.

  “Skylar Evans! What’s up?”

  I wondered if Josh was there and what he thought about me calling Blake. Would it remind him of that ill-advised week I’d had with his brother? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

  “I need a favor.” My throat was raw, and I held the phone away from my ear for a second and coughed.

  “I don’t do favors for girls who break my heart.”

  This was typical flirty Blake, nothing new, but I couldn’t do the banter thing, not now. My body was shaking, and my brain had gone numb.

  “Blake. My car just broke down on the 99, and it’s hot as hell, and I’m having a really, really bad day, so can you please just send out your tow truck?”

  His voice instantly became serious. “Where are you?”

  “Like, an hour away. Near the outlet?”

  He cursed under his breath. “Hold on.” I could hear him talking to someone in the background, a bit of arguing, then, “Josh is on his way home from his doctor in Fresno, so he’s coming your way. I’ll call and have him pick you up, and I’ll get the tow truck out there later. Just make sure you lock up the car when you leave. You okay?”

  Josh. God, this day couldn’t get any worse. Didn’t the universe understand that Josh had made my problem so big I could hardly see the other side of it?

  “I’m—I’m fine. Um. Thanks.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to pay me back someday,” he said. Eww.

  “You. Have. A girlfriend.”

  “That’s why I said someday, Sky.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  He started to say something else, but my finger was already shutting him up. The phone off, I chucked it into my bag, then grabbed the old blanket I kept in my trunk. I didn’t know when Josh would be showing up, so I trekked over to a tiny stand of trees at the edge of the huge cornfield I’d broken down next to. My clothes were a mess—sweat-stained and dirty—and my face had tracks of mascara running down it. I hardly had any water left in my bottle, and I could already feel a headache coming on. I laid the blanket next to the tree and sat against the trunk, keeping my eyes closed. It was cooler in the shade, but not by much. I tried not to think of the dirt that had dusted over every inch of my skin or the way my silk shirt clung to me. I blocked out the sound of cars passing on the highway, focusing in on the way the hot breeze rustled the cornstalks. I imagined swimming pools and icebergs and cold showers. I fell into a black hole. It was deep and good, and I never wanted to leave it.

  “Sky.”

  I woke with a start, gasping. Josh was standing over me, his mouth turned down. The sun was a little lower.

  “Hey. Sorry, I must have…”

  He reached out a hand, and I hesitated for a second, then took it. He pulled me up in one quick, fluid motion. I wondered if I smelled.

  “What the hell are you thinking, sleeping on the side of the road—you’re lucky some crazy serial killer didn’t come and kidnap you.”

  His voice was hard, like he was genuinely angry with me.

  I shrugged. �
�Who would want to do that? I look like a bag lady. Plus, I know self-defense.”

  He frowned again, then reached out a hand and touched my cheek. I stood absolutely still, my entire world whittled down to those few centimeters of skin under his fingers.

  “Were you crying?” he asked, his voice soft.

  I turned away and reached down to pick up my purse and the blanket.

  “Just a little,” I admitted. “Tears of frustration, though. Not wimpiness.”

  “I would never accuse you of wimpiness.”

  He smiled, and I made the mistake of looking into those eyes. They were epic. Blue blue blue. The storminess from the Fourth was gone, and they were gentle and so what I needed. And didn’t need. Needed. God, I didn’t know anymore. Hell.

  He took another look at my face, then gestured to his truck. “Let’s go.”

  I let him help me in and then I pretended to search inside my bag for something while he got in, and the only way I knew he was struggling a bit was a muttered curse. God forbid he take off the huge-ass wheels. I looked back at my car—now that I was working at the gas station, I needed it more than ever. I turned away from it and stared out the windshield.

  Josh started the truck and blasted the air conditioner. I leaned back and sighed as arctic air shot out at me.

  “Oh my God, that feels so good,” I said. My car was already feeling like a bad dream.

  He eased back onto the highway, then glanced over at me. “I think we need to get you to Dairy Queen stat.”

  “Those are the best words I’ve ever heard.”

  He gestured to my outfit. “So, this is interesting.”

  I smoothed my wrinkled, dirty skirt. Total mess.

  “Yeah. Can we not talk about it?”

  “Sure.”

  He fiddled with the radio until he got to the classic rock station. The truck filled with an insistent beat and familiar words—an old Rolling Stones song my dad had loved, “Paint It Black.”

  Josh drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and nodded his head, his lips moving with Mick Jagger’s growl.