by Penny Reid
Studying what I could see of Roscoe—which wasn’t much—I wondered what he was thinking. This was a novel experience for me. It had once felt like we could read each other’s minds. When he disappeared, I didn’t care what he thought or felt.
But now . . .
“What are you thinking about?”
Roscoe’s steps faltered as he walked along the side of the truck to the back, but only for a second. I heard the pause more than saw it.
“How are you getting home?” he asked.
Immediately, I understood his meaning. Did I feel comfortable driving home, in the dark, forty minutes on mountain roads, with Officer Strickland somewhere out there?
To my credit, I thought about telling the whole truth, that I didn’t feel comfortable, but that I would deal with it.
But before I could, he offered, “I could pack this up and follow you home, make sure you get there safe . . . if you want.”
His chivalrous gesture had me saying without thinking, “Or I could sleep out here with you.”
Dammit.
My body was covered in hot chills and my heart was fluttering on overtime. Dammit. I hadn’t meant to say that, and I had no idea from whence it had emerged.
There’s that brain disease acting up again.
Again, his steps faltered. But this time he didn’t move for a long moment. He didn’t seem to be breathing either.
If I didn’t know myself better, I would have sworn this was an attempt at flirting. But I did know myself. Since I knew myself, I knew I wasn’t of the flirting species. It’s not that I couldn’t do it, it’s just that—like pep rallies and barking orders—what was the point?
My moves were more like, “Hey. Let’s go have safe sex, and I’ll leave before breakfast so we don’t have to make awkward eye contact in the morning or pretend to be interested in each other.”
And then we did.
I was just on the cusp of turning the suggestion into a joke when Roscoe said, “Okay.”
“Pardon me?” I almost choked on air, I was so shocked.
“Okay,” he repeated, louder this time. “Sure, why not. Sleep out here with me.”
Chapter Nine
“We all have our time machines, don't we. Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward, are dreams.”
H.G. Wells
*Roscoe*
Settling in, I took my spot on the left side of the bed and looked up at the night sky. There was no moon, therefore the sky was teeming with stars. I saw nothing. I was too busy calling myself every word I could think of for idiot.
When she’d suggested staying, my immediate reaction had been violent panic. But once that had cleared and I gave myself a moment to think the idea over, it had struck me as an excellent—if not drastic—opportunity to practice being within close proximity of Simone while maintaining platonic intentions and reflections. This was an opportunity for me to make a new memory with her where I’d be in control.
Plus, it was dark. Even to my super night vision Winston eyes, it was dark. Which meant I’d be making a new memory with one of my five senses at a disadvantage.
I’d considered it to be an excellent idea for exactly two minutes, just long enough to settle on the scheme and congratulate myself. Not a minute later, I experienced an avalanche of regret as I watched her climb into the bed of the truck and snuggle under the covers.
Roscoe, you’re a dummy, a voice repeated in my head, one that sounded suspiciously like my brother Cletus.
“Hey, I have some questions.”
Simone and her questions.
Sighing, I asked, “Such as?”
“So, what’s going on with your dad?”
I started, staring forward and frowning at her subject choice. “My dad?”
“Darrell.”
“Yes. I know who my father is.” I ground my teeth.
Where we were sitting, our backs were to the spot where Darrell had dropped me off when I was twelve. This was why I always camped here, in this spot. I camped here once a week to bury the memory of being abandoned under a pile of new, better, benign ones.
“Do you want to talk about your dad at all?” Simone sounded like she was choosing her words carefully. “I mean, it looks like he came out of nowhere last week. You didn’t seem happy to see him.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Has he tried to make contact with you? Since last week?”
Now I was scowling. “No.”
“Hmm . . .”
I felt her eyes move over me while I continued glaring at the constellations. The night sky felt three-dimensional in Tennessee, as though you were a part of, and adrift within, the heavens. With most other places, it was easy to believe the sky was merely the flat interior surface of a sphere.
“Are you really going to sleep in your jeans?” she asked apropos of nothing. “I can’t sleep in jeans.”
My attention drifted to where her legs—encased in jeans—were stretched in front of her under the covers. “What are you going to sleep in then?”
“I usually sleep in the nude.”
I choked, my eyes bugging out of my head, her statement leaving me drenched in a cold sweat of panic. And lust. But before I could sputter a thought, she laughed.
“I’m totally kidding. I’m fine to sleep in these clothes, I just need to message my mom and let her know.” Simone pulled out her phone from somewhere behind her and unlocked it. “You know, she caught me last week coming in after midnight, and she did that appearing thing she used to do to Daniella.”
That had me smirking and breathing out a quiet sigh. I told my heart to calm down.
“You know,” I said, connecting the dots of the Big Dipper with my eyes. “It’s warm for this time of year, but I only have one sleeping bag and a blanket.”
“I don’t mind lying with you, it’ll be just like old times.”
I had to tell my heart to calm down again—reminding myself that I was in control here, I could leave at any time—as I rasped out, “Yeah, right. Exactly the same.”
Apparently finished typing a message to her mother, I perceived the light of her phone’s screen extinguish and felt her shift slightly, presumably to put away her phone. We were both quiet for a stretch.
She broke the silence, asking, “So, what’s the tent for?” Simone was employing a voice I recognized from our shared past, one she put on when she wanted to sound casual.
She’d never been a good actress, never been gifted at hiding her feelings from folks who took the time to study her mannerisms. I still knew them all by heart, and likely always would.
“I pitch the tent in case it rains,” I answered. Not for the first time since she appeared, I wondered why she was here. She’d admitted she’d been looking for me, but why? Why would she do that? Why seek me out?
“Is rain in the forecast?” Her tone was still forced nonchalance.
I glanced at Simone where she sat next to me, just about a foot away. We were under the same covers and she was using one of my pillows behind her back. But what captured my notice was the way her profile was painted in a silvery outline. I could distinguish each of her eyelashes, the graceful slope of her cheekbone, the line of her jaw, the shape of her lips. The sight stole my breath.
She was beauty.
An unforeseen gratefulness settled over me, a gladness and peace, easing the constant sorrow I associated with her memory. Maybe because, in that moment, I wasn’t remembering our past.
“No, no rain in the forecast.” I had to clear my throat before continuing, my gaze still on her, “But once, I was camping—somewhere else, not here—a few years ago and the weatherman promised no rain.”
“And it rained?” She grinned, her face turned up to the stars.
I nodded. “Buckets.”
She laughed, stealing a glance in my direction. The sound of her laughter and the brightness of her smile made me laugh, too.
I’d always have heartache with Simone. But now, I�
��d have this new moment, too.
“The sky opened up and it was like being caught under a waterfall.”
She laughed harder, her eyes closing.
“I packed all my gear in the cab, and drove home soaking wet. Ever since, I bring a tent.”
“That makes sense.” She turned her grin on me, nodding. “So, why do you camp out here? Why do you camp at all?”
Telling her the truth—that though I’d been camping once a week for years, I’d been coming out here for just over a year in order to confront a traumatic childhood memory—wasn’t an option.
So I responded to her first question with, “I couldn’t say,” tilting my head to the side as I considered how to answer her second question honestly. “I guess I got used to camping when I was traveling with Drew.”
But it was more than that. I also liked the quiet, the lack of people. Being around animals and nature didn’t tax me the same way being around people did, which was why I’d decided to become a veterinarian. I didn’t want to be in a general practice for much longer. I wanted to do work with the national parks, where I’d be off on my own.
But I’d still donate my time to shelters at night. I’d never stop doing that.
“When did you go traveling with Drew?”
“I took a semester off during undergrad.”
“Where did you go?” Her voice sounded natural now, no longer forced-casual, just plain casual and curious.
“Lots of places. All over the US. The Grand Canyon and Yellowstone were my favorites here. After that, we went to New Zealand for a stretch, and I think I liked that best of all.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons,” I said, struggling, irritated with myself for my reticence. I never had a problem talking to folks when I was around them, never been shy or at a loss for topics if I elected to engage in conversation.
But with her, the one person to whom I used to confess everything, the words stuck in my throat.
“Give me one reason,” she requested softly, in that gentle way of hers.
I glanced at Simone, found her turned toward me, her head resting on her arms which were resting on the tops of her bent knees. She wore a soft smile, but it was her eyes that made the difference. Looking into them now felt like such a luxury. They beseeched me to continue.
So I gathered a deep breath, brought forward the sights, sounds, and smells, and I gave her my reasons. All of them.
I told her about my favorite places, The Otago Peninsula with the yellow-eyed penguin reserve and the forest of trees that looked like how I imagined the Ents would in The Lord of the Rings. The white sandy beaches that were too cold for sunbathing, but sea lions did so anyway, and the cloudy aquamarine color of the Pacific Ocean. I told her about the Catlins, the hidden old forests that plunged into caverns, trees with bark that shredded from the trunk like sheets of rust-colored paper, and trees with umbrella shaped canopies, like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.
I told her about “Niagara Falls of New Zealand,” which had turned out to be a lark on tourists, an innocuous trap set by locals. I also told her about the best cup of pea soup I’d had at the Niagara Falls Café and how they served their tea with little kiwi bird bag holders, where the long beak clipped on the side of the cup.
I described the boat, then bus, then boat trip to Doubtful Sound. How the water was like a mirror, reflecting the snowcapped mountains rising out of the fjords, with waterfalls cascading to the earth and rainbows reaching to the sky.
“I’d forgotten how you . . .” she trailed off, her chest rising and falling with a large breath. She’d lifted her head during my story about Niagara Falls and her gaze held mine squarely.
Abrupt awareness of how close we were had me leaning away, as though to get a better look at her. “Forgotten what?”
“I’d forgotten how good you are at telling stories,” she admitted slowly, like it was a confession. “You make me feel like I could be there. I always thought you’d be a writer.”
I gave her a half-smile but said nothing. It was getting late. The frantic cricket chirps and frog croaks of twilight had now faded, replaced with the mellower melody of night, like the darkness was a real blanket, softening and obscuring even sound. A gust swished the trees still devoid of leaves at the north end of the field. The wind sounded like a faint whistle instead of the typical rustling breezes in the summer.
Straightening her legs and resting her back against the pillow again, she turned away, her face once more in profile. “I think I’d like to go there.”
“You should.” I bumped her shoulder with mine without thinking, the movement reflexive, and liking the thought of Simone making happy memories and exploring my favorite places. I liked the idea even more of being the one to take her there, but I quickly dismissed the thought.
“I think I will.” She bumped my shoulder back. “In fact, I will. It’ll be my next vacation.”
I gave her a sidelong look. “Aren’t you kinda on vacation now?”
She grew exceptionally still, but she didn’t look put off by my question. Rather, she seemed to be considering how best to answer.
“It doesn’t feel like a vacation,” she finally said, giving me a slight smile and a shrug, adding quietly, “I can’t wait to go home.”
“Home? You mean DC?”
She nodded, looking up at the stars. “Yes.”
“You know, I thought about moving to DC.”
“You did?” She looked at me, surprised.
“Yeah. I was offered a job by their zoo. I liked the idea of taking care of unusual animals—well, not unusual. Just not the typical pets seen in practice.”
She studied me, then asked, “Have you been to DC?”
I nodded. “Once. With Drew, a few years back.”
“What did you think?”
“I really liked it,” I answered honestly. “It’s not too far from here, and I like the history. And the food.”
“You should come visit me,” she said, quickly amending, “I mean, if you want to visit again, you should visit me.” She then ducked her head, giving me the sense she’d spoken initially before thinking the words through and they left her a touch embarrassed.
I watched her, appreciating the beauty of her profile while I swallowed around a knot of unease, curiosity driving me to ask, “You got people in DC?” I was careful to keep my voice light.
Again, Simone seemed to debate how best to answer, and the air between us shifted. What had been easy and natural before now felt charged and uncomfortable.
“No one with whom I’m dating or having sex, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, brazen as sunlight. She settled her gaze on me before continuing, “But I do miss my friends, and my Nancy.”
“Your Nancy?” I asked, buying myself some time to process the earlier part of her response, and irritated because the news—that she was single—filled me with something akin to both satisfaction and hope.
“Nancy makes me enchiladas on Tuesdays.” Simone’s stare flicked over me, turned probing, and she asked, “How about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes. You ‘got people’ in Nashville?” Now her eyes narrowed.
We traded stares for a few seconds while I fought the urge to smile, and my chest grew hot with pleasure. It was a surreal moment, having Simone ask me if I was dating anyone. I knew what the question meant. Single folks of a similar age only asked other single folks of a similar age if they were in a relationship for one reason.
Because they were interested.
Now that might mean interested in just hanging out, or interested in just hooking up, or interested in more. Regardless, the interest gauntlet had been thrown.
Ignoring the alarm bells in my head that I was losing control of this situation, and whatever memory would be created as a result, I responded, “No.”
Her pretty lips curved, her gaze seemed to soften and grow more intent at the same time.
Satisfied the joke-trap was set, I f
ollowed up with, “I have no one to make me enchiladas on Tuesdays in Nashville.”
Simone made a strangled sound and her jaw dropped open with mock outrage, but she was also smiling. “Roscoe.”
“Simone.”
Her grin wavered as I said her name, and she blinked, shaking her head. “You know what I’m asking.”
“Do I though?” I scratched behind my ear, trying to fix a serious expression on my face. “Us Winston boys are pretty slow on the uptake. You might have to spell it out for me.”
She gave me a pointed look and made a show of flexing her fingers. “I have ways of making you talk.”
Plainly put, she meant she would tickle the truth out of me. For us both, this had always been the most effective way to force an answer out of the other.
I leaned further away at her threat and my grin broke free. “Fine, fine. No need for violence.”
“Answer the question.”
“There is no one,” I said evenly, surprised at how light and benign the words sounded when, in fact, the truth of them was considerably more complex and clumsy.
There is no one.
There’s never been anyone.
There’s only been you.
“There. Was that so hard?” She patted my shoulder. “Okay, tell me, why isn’t there someone?”
Now I made a strangled sound. “Excuse me?”
“Do you fear commitment? Because that’s my reason.”
That had me straightening. “You fear commitment?”
“Not really. Fear isn’t the right word. It’s more like, why would I want to do that to myself?”
“Commit to someone?” I asked, suddenly aware of how fast my heart was beating.
All those years ago, when she’d been drunk and given me her answer, “Not anyone, and least of all you,” I’d always wondered about the not anyone part. She didn’t return my feelings? Okay, fine. But the fact that she planned to live her entire life without returning any feelings?
Why?
“I don’t see an upside, to be honest.” She sighed, nodding at her own assertion. “Yes, there’s the consistency of sex. However, there’s everything else. The demands, the fights, the drama.”