And then, I breathe.
The whole sky opens up, the mountains cradling us, the sun pouring down. We’re in the sky, and now the speed feels like we’re breaking free. Choking on my relief, I drag my fingers through my hair. The strands burn my skin and I hold out my hand. It trembles; it’s a seismograph measuring my anxiety.
What’s weird is that right now, I feel . . . good. All that panic turned to joy. Arden sits next to me, and she’s beautiful. When she catches me looking, she smiles. For me, just for me.
(NOT EXACTLY A ROAD CONVERSATION)
It’s gonna be a rest stop for us tonight. Already we proved we can sleep in this thing (and then some), but it turns out, only real well when it’s dark and quiet. All around us, cars pull in; they pull out.
They talk by our windows. They make the Escalade shake when they slam their doors. I’m in-and-out awake, and so is Arden. Somewhere in the middle of the night, she wakes me up laughing.
It’s creepy, I ain’t gonna lie. She’s just laying there next to me, laughing. Carefully, I give her a shove. (I hope something nightmare ain’t about to happen; if she opens her eyes and there’s nothing there, I’m gonna ruin these expensive, expensive seats.)
“Sorry,” Arden says, and jesus, thank god, her eyes are just eyes.
With another nudge, I ask her, “What’s so funny?”
At first, I think she’s pretending to go back to sleep on me. But then, her laughter rises up again. Throwing an arm over me, she pushes up to peer at me in the dark. “Too slow!”
Baffled, I stare at her. “What?!”
“You drive too slow,” she cackles, then slumps on my chest.
So in the middle of the night, in Colorado, days away from Ohio, Arden’s losing her shit now because I got us pulled over then. The lack of sleep has got her goofy or something, and I drop a hand on the back of her neck. She’s warm and shaking against me. It’s a good sound; out of place as all get out, but so what? She deserves to laugh.
That doesn’t mean she gets to mock me, though. Stroking her back, I say, “You’re drunk, Arden, go home.”
At that, she dissolves into fresh laughter. In the dark, she clings to me, and she giggles and what the hell can I do? Nothing. Not a thing. So I hold her until she starts to fall asleep again. Just when I’m about to fall off too, she raises her head once more.
“From here on out,” she announces, “I’m calling you Slo-Mo. Slo-Mo Stefansky.”
“Terror of the Interstate,” I agree, rolling my eyes.
That only makes her laugh more.
(PUSH)
The road is especially urgent now. It’s all downhill, literally. We have to fight to slow down instead of struggling to speed up. It’s racing, whether we want to or not, through a paved valley cloaked in evergreen.
I’ve been on Arden’s phone for a while, searching for used cars online. We’re going to need one, soon. I consider the motorcycles wistfully, but let’s be honest: I’d fall asleep and fall right the fuck off. Whatever we buy next, it’s going to have seats and walls and a roof. And belts. Hopefully floors.
“How far now?” I ask when I look up, because I know she’s keeping track.
Pretty when she purses her lips, Arden says, “Well, that depends. Do you want to spend the night in the desert, or . . .”
The way she says it tells me she has a plan. I think it doesn’t matter if I want to spend the night among the sand and the cactus. (Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. There are wolves and coyotes and snakes and scorpions in the desert, right? Maybe not wolves. I think wolves like trees. Or do they just live near them? Are wolves even real anymore outside zoos? Shit. I just lost my train of thought.)
Oh, I know where I was going:
It’s nice to see her picking and deciding. She’s earned that; she doesn’t have to be quiet. She shouldn’t want to be invisible. And me, I’ve been needing to learn to just let things happen, too. If I give it up to her, it’s good. If she takes it and runs, that’s good. We’re both good. And I slipped into the secret lives of lupines instead of filling in the end of her sentence like I was supposed to.
“Or?” I ask.
“Vegas, baby!”
Suddenly, Arden dances behind the wheel. Her spine is liquid; even seated, her hips sway. That is, honest to god, the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. All her lines animate. She’s beautiful, stretched out with her winter gold skin and dark brown hair. Her curls bounce as she twists her fingers together, pumping her arms above the wheel.
When I don’t say anything (or join in, probably), Arden gets self-conscious, and stops. “What?”
Unexpectedly honest, I say, “I was just enjoying the show.”
She blushes. Her sweet, sweet face turns pink, and she looks back at the road. It makes me crazy that she keeps hiding that. That the world expects her to hide that.
“Anyway,” she says. “If we pushed to ten hours on the road today, we could make it to Vegas by nightfall. I think. I mean, if we find a car fairly quickly.”
Holding up her phone, I say, “We’re going to drive right past Westward Ho Used Cars. Two thousand two Saturn sedan, four thousand bucks, out the door.”
“No kidding?” she asks.
“It’s green,” I say, then do a little dance of my own. Arms above my head, just for a few bounces. “Like your eyes.”
She asks, “Are you flirting with me?”
“I’m always flirting with you.”
(840.82)
Grand Junction isn’t an exit. It appears on the highway, blooming up trailers and gas stations on either side of the divide. It seems a strange place to take a high-ticket SUV, but whatever. Ours is not to question why and all that. We stop first at the car lot, to buy us the ship that will sail us to the Salton Sea.
The entire time we sit in that over-ACed office, I tremble. Not because it’s cold, or because I’m sick. But because we’re almost there. Way back in Ohio, Colorado was ephemeral. A wraith of a state, not yet real. It’s real now, all these places are real. I feel small among new mountains. They were here before people ever were. They’ll be around when we’re gone. Next to the Rockies, we’re all a blink of the eye.
I stare at them as Arden signs paperwork. Westward Ho sells us the Saturn with no problem at all. She proves she has insurance by pulling it up online, and they’re all good with that, and fine and dandy, papers signed, let’s go to VEGAS, BABY! Well, let’s let me follow behind Arden in the new car, while she drops off the Escalade.
Leaving it behind, I have to take one long, last look. It was too big, too expensive, too everything. But it’s got one of my best memories in it, so I have to say good-bye. Good-bye SUV, good-bye Colorado, and soon, good-bye I-70.
We don’t even turn left. Not really.
The highway arches in a long curve, we merge, and then we’re heading south. There were no signs. No notice, no little historical marker: now leaving the fifth largest transcontinental highway in the United States. We’re on it, then we’re not, and the pavement’s smooth as can be. The only difference is that the mountains are on my arm now, instead of at the tip of my nose.
When Arden’s phone rings, I touch the buttons and turn on speaker for her, but say nothing. I’ve been clutching the phone for a while now. I was taking pictures when one highway turned into the next, and I just never put it back down.
“How’s the lake?” Arden’s father asks. His voice is in my hands; I stare at the screen. There’s an icon of a bomb with a smiley face on it instead of a picture. Concrete Blocks sounds just the same as ever. Which is to say, not friendly, not anything. Just stiff.
With the same practiced exhaustion, Arden lies, “Cold, and maybe I’m crazy, but I think the mosquitos are out early.”
“I wasn’t aware they had mosquitos in Grand Junction, Colorado. You learn something new every day.”
Arden mouths, “Great,” and she reaches for the phone. Wedging it between her thumb and her forefinger, she presses it against the wheel.
The needle on the speedometer rises, tick, tick, tick. It’s okay, we were going about five under so we can stand to pick up some speed. Steeling herself, Arden says, “They have mosquitos everywhere, Dad.”
Plastering a hand over my mouth, I don’t laugh out loud. I don’t make a sound. But that was a fine clapback; I’m so proud of her. The Jedi mind trick comes back, a full, vivid memory, and that underlines it for me: this guy is a dick. He doesn’t know anything about his daughter. Oh yeah, Arden just fired a barb at Concrete Blocks, and I’m going to celebrate it for her.
“The insurance company called,” Concrete Blocks says. “There’s a problem with the VIN number on the car you bought. It might be stolen. Or perhaps the lien didn’t come off when the previous owner paid it off. It’s hard to say.”
“Can you take care of that?” Arden asks.
Holy shit, she’s not just mouthing off to him. She’s standing up. Maybe for the first time ever. Instead of scared, she sounds certain. When she straightens her shoulders this time, it’s with authority. I don’t know what happened; I don’t know what changed. But Arden’s pushing back and it’s beautiful.
“I’m not amused, David. Why are you in Colorado?”
Changing lanes, Arden lifts her chin. “I’m taking a friend to California.”
“Where’s your car?”
Heavy silence sinks around us, and Arden finally says, “It got stolen in Ohio.”
Concrete Blocks’ voice never rises. It’s a cool, clean dagger edge, cutting through the distance. “You’re driving to the next airport and coming home immediately. Where are you?”
“I told you. I’m taking a friend to California,” Arden repeats.
There’s a quaver in her voice. She’s not invisible at all right now. I rub her thigh because her hands are busy. It’s all I can do, but it’s a marvel and a horror to watch. I feel like I shouldn’t be listening, but I can’t help but devour every word.
“There will be a one-way ticket for you at the Delta counter in Las Vegas. I suggest you get on the plane, David.”
“David won’t be there,” Arden says. Her courage falters; her voice falls nearly to a whisper. “David’s not coming back.”
There’s a pause. Concrete Blocks loses some of his cool. The edge crumbles and he says, “I canceled the insurance. I canceled your credit cards. There’s a hold on your bank account. I’m reporting the car stolen, and reporting you missing.”
Damn. Damn it, damn. Daddy snaps back. I start to sweat, a bitter, anxious sheen that leaves me oily and probably pungent. I don’t know what happens now. Concrete Blocks has connections. He’s not afraid to call the cops; there are consequences and dangers untold, and what did I get Arden into?
Squeezing Arden’s knee, I mouth to her, “I don’t want to fuck up your life.”
Her eyes flash. She tells her father, “I have to get going.”
Out loud, I finally murmur. I beg, a halo around my goddamned head, I can be good. I can fix things instead of ruin them. “Just leave me in Las Vegas, Arden. I’ll hitchhike to California.”
“Who is that?” Concrete Blocks demands.
“That’s the friend,” Arden says. “Bye, Dad.”
She tries a couple of times to hang up. Her hands aren’t steady enough so I take the phone from her. I tap the screen, I end the call. Then I dig around in the settings to turn the thing on airplane mode. It’s not like it will stop Arden from putting it back later. But she won’t have to get nine thousand million calls from the evilest man in the world in the meantime.
“It’s really okay,” I say. “It’s a miracle we made it this far.”
Reserve breaking, Arden raises her voice. “Goddamn it, Dylan, we’re four hours away. When we stop for the night, we’re going to be four hours away from the Salton Sea, all right? I want to see it. Maybe that makes me a bitch, but I came this far and I want to see it.”
“Well fuck you,” I say, trying to jolt or jolly her out of it. “I wanted to see it first.”
“Fuck you,” she replies softly.
“You wouldn’t even know about it if it weren’t for me.” I take off my seat belt, because really, what’s the worst that can happen? (Don’t answer that.) I slide closer to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. I press my face into the clean warmth of her arm, and I kiss the curve of her shoulder. It’s getting dark outside, actually dark. We’ve spent nights together, but this is our third night, together.
Some of her ice melts. Turning her head quickly, she kisses my brow and then looks back at the highway. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have gotten here without me.”
I kiss her again, her ear, the little spot that’s so soft behind it. Her shoulder; I pull her hand to my lips and kiss her fingers, too. When she peeks my away again, I kiss her knuckles and I tell her the truth, the truest thing ever.
“And don’t think I’ll ever forget that, either.”
(333.80)
If you pay in cash, nobody in Vegas cares who you are.
With the leftover from the car, and the money for delivering the Escalade, Arden decides we’re staying in a suite that overlooks the whole city. From every direction, the elevator reflects us. It’s funhouse time, with rivets in our faces and our bodies stretched out wide. Neither of us looks like ourselves; that’s fair.
My ears pop halfway up, and sound roars into my head. I hear gears grinding, and people laughing. Machinery hums; Arden’s keys jingle as she shakes them anxiously. On other floors that we pass, other elevators ding. We had to slide our key card to even push the button for our floor.
When the elevator stops, I see why. It opens into a palace. Our shoes scrape across marble, then shuffle on smooth, camel carpet. There’s ocean-blue chairs and a creamy silk bed. A dining room, a desk—right off to the side, a bathroom with a tub as big as a Jacuzzi.
Fuck, it’s so rich. At first, I’m afraid to walk in. I feel like I should take off my shoes, maybe scrub myself off before I touch any of this stuff. It overwhelms me, all this luxury. I’m so small inside it; I don’t belong. Arden smooths her warm hands over my shoulders, and my anxiety melts. She kisses my hair, and all my joints loosen. I’m safe here; I’m with her.
So I let my bag slip from my shoulder, and I walk inside. In the middle of the room, a high, arched window beckons. I’m a moth, drawn to the glow that fills the sky.
Beneath me, Las Vegas glitters. Lights flash, so many colors. It blends together in a swirl. Way, way, way far down, people climb into limos and climb out of them again. Everything’s in motion. Not far from here, a black pyramid fires light into the sky. It’s like a science fiction novel opened up and some crazy shit’s about to happen.
At the edges of the light, shadows flicker and I realize it must be birds. Or bats. Or maybe it’s beaming people down, I don’t know. But I have the best view of it. I could read by it, except my eyes are blurry and I left my library card at home.
Arden’s hands touch my hips, then slide around my waist. She fills the space behind me. Her warmth feeds me; I lean into it. Into her. Her body is a miracle, strong and beautiful against me. I close my eyes—I’m not drifting. I’m absorbing. The sound of her voice and the shape of her, pressed against me. The way she shifts weight from foot to foot. How she draws circles on my back, over and over. Her touch spirals on, marking me without marking me.
“We’re gonna be there tomorrow,” she says, her voice buzzing on my skin.
With a smile, I say, “Yeah, we are.”
“You wanna celebrate tonight?”
Turning in her arms, I steal a kiss from her teasing mouth. “Yeah, I do.”
I’m not suave. I’m not graceful. I don’t belong in a place like this, with a girl like her, and I don’t give a damn. Backing her toward the bed, I have to be careful. This isn’t a movie, but it doesn’t have to be a disaster, either.
When we sink into that cloud of bed, she pulls me down for a kiss. Finally, I’m allowed to sink my fingers into the wilds of her hair again. My lips b
rush her chin; my nose grazes against hers. This is the quietest place in the world, the space inside her arms. Somewhere to think, and be. Somewhere to die, but I won’t. It would be cruel. I got the miracle, so I have a list now.
One more kiss. One more day. All the rest, after that. I won’t die here in Arden’s arms.
But I could. It would be so peaceful.
(CHECK OUT)
In the morning, I wake to find myself alone. There’s a note on the bedside table that says Ran to store, back in a few. As I swallow down lukewarm water (cold makes my stomach clench), I stare at Arden’s handwriting. It’s dark, thick—not in cursive. It’s like the lettering in a comic book, all action and strong.
It surprises me. I go back to the note again as I finish the strawberries we ordered from room service late last night. The note wavers in my hand; I trace the lines of her letters with my knuckle. Everything about Arden is sweet, and round and gentle. But when she writes, she claims the page and fills it completely. A secret glimpse of her insides? I think so. The page doesn’t smell like her, but these sheets do. My skin does.
I owe her so much for starting over with me.
Except, I’m not all the way started over, am I?
The room phone is heavy when I pick it up. I have to read the instructions twice to figure out the whole outside line dealie. A call this complicated makes me feel stupid, but it’s a passing sensation. So what? It’s just a phone. Pressing numbers carefully, I hold my breath when the line rings. After three, I think it’s going to go to voice mail.
Then suddenly, my mother’s wary voice says, “Hello?”
Normally she doesn’t answer unknown callers, but this one is probably coming up with the name of the hotel. Who knows, maybe she won a paid vacation for two to Las Vegas. Maybe she and Lynne can get away from the Waffle n’ Steak for a while. Do some serious blackjack therapy, see some shows, throw some panties. I almost feel bad that she’s not getting that trip. Almost.
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