Brightest As We Fall

by Cleo Peitsche

  But he probably wasn’t much fun when he was stressed out, either. Being on top of each other nonstop didn’t help things.

  Except for when they were literally on top of each other. That was fun.

  Jason leaned his left elbow on the door and turned his head so that DeeAnn wouldn’t see his smile. All things considered, they were getting along better than he’d ever have expected. She wasn’t the worst person to be on the run with.

  “You were telling me about the phone call,” DeeAnn said a few miles later.

  “Right. My buddy Shot moved to Wisconsin a few years ago.”

  DeeAnn sat ramrod straight in her seat. “You can’t trust him. Or anyone. People back home are gonna know you might go there. What did you tell him?”

  “Calm down. He didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message.”

  DeeAnn relaxed. “Good. You said yourself that we have to break all ties with our former lives.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.” Jason felt defensive. DeeAnn was right, but he wasn’t exactly overrun with good options. “Shot never worked directly for AJ, and he damned sure had nothing to do with the Jack Rebels.”

  “Because he’s not a criminal?”

  “I didn’t say that. He’s less of a distributor and more of an… entrepreneur.”

  “What’s that code for?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Identity theft and related skills.” Jason had to talk louder to drown out DeeAnn’s self-righteous protest. Which made her talk louder, and then he had to, as well.

  “You don’t need to yell!” she said loudly.

  “I’m not…” He rubbed his hand over his face. A sign announced an upcoming rest stop with bathrooms and vending machines. “I need to stretch my legs.”

  Jason pulled into the rest stop, parking at the far end.

  He killed the engine and looked at DeeAnn. “I know this is hard for you. But let’s be honest. You lost your right to complain the moment you got into that stolen car outside the pizza shop.”

  The color drained from her face. “Don’t hold back just because we’re fucking.” DeeAnn scrambled out of the car, leaving the door open.

  Jason got out, too. Now he was angry. “I’m the one getting my hands dirty, but you reap the benefits. So why don’t you climb down off your high horse, come down here where you belong, in the mud.”

  They met in front of the hood, DeeAnn’s arms wide and gesturing as she yelled and stuttered. Jason caught the words “kidnapping” and “extortion” and “you took advantage of someone who was severely dehydrated, which is really low, Jason.”

  Jason folded his arms over his chest. When she stopped talking to inhale, he said, “You know how in old movies, the guy tells the leading lady that she’s beautiful when she’s angry?”

  DeeAnn’s face reddened with fury. “How dare you patronize me—”

  “Well, they’re full of shit. Your eyes are bulging like a frog that got stepped on, and I think you’re about to pop an artery in your neck.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Jason.”

  “Why? I have you for that.”

  When Jason saw the look in DeeAnn’s eyes, he braced himself. He’d be getting a slap at the very least.

  It never came.

  Instead, DeeAnn’s face crumpled into tears. Stunned, Jason stared at her.

  Everything they’d been through, and she’d never broken down. She’d been sad, or angry, or frustrated. But never sobbing, not like this. He’d forgotten that was even a thing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said hesitantly. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. They’d been fighting, and she’d been giving as good as she got. Better, even, accusing him of taking advantage of her when he’d been nothing but generous. “You’re not ugly.”

  DeeAnn inhaled loudly. “You think that’s why I’m mad? You’re a psychopath.” She swiped aggressively at her eyes. Her lips pressed into a firm line, and she shook her head.

  Jason blinked. His head spun. But… he’d been called worse.

  DeeAnn seemed to sag. “You don’t even understand what human emotions are. Which I knew. I should have expected this.”

  Jason felt like he’d been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. Yeah, he’d been called worse, but it was different coming from DeeAnn.

  And the way she said it, softly. She wasn’t pushing back in a fight; she believed it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling helpless. He wished he knew why she was so upset. “I didn’t realize… I was just joking around, trying to lighten things up. Obviously that didn’t work.”

  DeeAnn was still shaking her head. She looked wounded, like he’d ripped out her soul.

  “Maybe this time you have career advice for me,” he suggested. Come on, take the bait. Let’s go back to how things were a few minutes ago. “How about… ‘Jason, forget standup comedy,’” he suggested.

  They were both quiet.

  DeeAnn stared off into the distance. Jason didn’t know what to say to make this better, so he waited.

  “This friend of yours. Shot. I assume he can get me new identification?”

  “Yes—”

  “Good,” she said, tucking a piece of loose hair behind her ear. “Good. You should call him again now. The sooner you and I go our separate ways, the better.”

  Cruel words crowded Jason’s mouth. He could have let them loose, could have said something equally harmful to her. Because he’d figured out a few of DeeAnn’s insecurities. But he didn’t. She was already hurting so much.

  You don’t even understand what human emotions are.

  Besides, she didn’t think he had feelings, so how could she know she’d hurt him?

  Chapter 30

  I study Jason’s face for even a small sign of humanity but see nothing. He doesn’t seem to even care that I hate him.

  Why would he? I’m just some chick he’s stuck with. Good enough to fuck, but that’s it.

  “We should get back on the road.” Jason slides his sunglasses over his eyes.

  “Give me the keys. It’s my turn to drive.”

  “No.” He walks back to the car and gets in.

  I’m too upset to even think about getting into an enclosed space with Jason if he’s going to be the one in control. What’s he going to do? Drive away and leave me?

  The car reverses. My door, which was still open, closes when the station wagon begins rolling forward again.

  Fucking bastard.

  I sprint for the car. If he wants to get away, it’d be easy right now. But he allows me to catch up and get in.

  “Seatbelt,” he says in a chiding voice that I think is supposed to sound like me.

  Fuck you, I think, whipping the strap across my body and stabbing the metal tongue at the buckle. Of course it doesn’t go in right away because my hands are shaking too much.

  “Can I help?” Jason asks politely, which only feeds my wrath. Eventually the buckle clicks.

  I’m not talking to him anymore, so I dig out the headphones that came with my phone and fire up a podcast. It’s about the Salem witches. I did a presentation on the witch trials in fifth grade. The podcast is a lot juicier. I knew that about two dozen people were executed, but I hadn’t realized that almost a hundred and fifty were put on trial.

  And it all started because some girls were having seizures and a small-minded doctor attributed everything to the devil.

  Several times I want to share some of the more interesting details with Jason. At first I don’t because I’m too upset to speak to him, but as time passes, my anger fades. When I look at him, though, his face is so closed off that I think it’s better to leave things alone.

  But when I get to a colorful tidbit about cakes made with urine of the “bewitched” victims, I can’t help myself. I tap the reverse button several times and hook my phone up to the car’s stereo, which is luckily aftermarket and modern.

  “This is interesting,” I say. “Salem. They killed a dog for being a witch, too.
That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Jason doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown, doesn’t even seem to hear me. The podcast plays through the speakers, and he doesn’t object.

  On our second refueling stop, we grab sandwiches for a late lunch, which we eat while pacing in the parking lot. My butt is starting to hurt from all the sitting, but there’s no point in complaining.

  Jason has hardly spoken to me all day, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe I went too far. Then I remember what he said, and I’m angry all over again.

  I know this is hard for you. But let’s be honest. You lost your right to complain the moment you got into that stolen car outside the pizza shop.

  I never wanted to get into that car, and even though Timmy Swinton was cool about “loaning” it to us, I still feel crappy about the whole thing. I’m not a thief, and stealing drug money from criminals doesn’t count. If anything, I did the world a favor, and it’s not like I had much of a choice. I was going to be running for my life either way.

  I’m not a bad person.

  Am I?

  Granted, I shouldn’t have lashed out. Jason’s comment about having me to fuck, I know he wasn’t putting me down. It was clear from his tone, and I regret exploding at him. It made me look weak, and Jason lost respect for me.

  I know I lost respect for myself.

  Jason has been trying to do things in a way that makes me comfortable, but I know that’s just because he finds it easier than listening to me complain. It’s a utilitarian decision; he doesn’t care about the victims or about anyone other than himself. What I said is true. He doesn’t have a conscience. In which case, why should I even care what he thinks?

  But I do. I want us to be friends, or at least friendly. Jason… He does have a sense of honor. He could have killed me, left me, and he didn’t.

  Guilt worms through my stomach. I should have kept my armchair psych diagnosis to myself. Jason clearly didn’t appreciate it, and I bet law-abiding people with psychopathy wouldn’t appreciate being associated with Jason’s crimes.

  I chew the last of my sandwich crust and stare out over the poorly tended lawn, peppered with cigarette butts and empty chip bags. Crows strut and squawk through the wasteland, attacking crumpled fast food wrappers.

  Jason is gulping down an enormous can of energy drink.

  “Jason, about earlier. Listen, I think maybe—”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” He crushes the can between his huge palms and walks away.

  Dinnertime rolls around. I’m sick of fast food. Jason must be, too, because when I suggest stopping at a real restaurant, he quickly agrees.

  He still won’t let me drive, so I hop online to find a restaurant near a budget hotel and navigate us there.

  “We could even walk to the hotel from here, if you want to have a few drinks,” I say as I hitch the strap of my metallic duffel onto my shoulder. Our suitcases are in the trunk, hidden from view.

  Jason doesn’t answer.

  “My treat tonight,” I say, trying again.

  “Too bad. I was planning to run when the bill came.”

  “Jason—”

  “Only stopping to steal the tips off the other tables on my way out. Maybe shove a grandmother into the wall and dropkick a baby or two.”

  A middle-aged couple is standing near the door when Jason opens it. From the look the woman gives us, she heard at least part of what Jason said.

  “Sorry,” I tell her as I follow Jason. “My friend has a unique sense of humor.”

  A lanky kid with hair in his eyes emerges from the bathrooms next to where they’re standing. The lady pulls him to her protectively.

  Jason helps himself to two menus and says to the approaching hostess, “It’s fine if we sit there, right?” He gestures at a booth that will allow us to keep an eye on the car.

  The hostess opens her mouth, then nods, though Jason is already walking to the booth.

  I read through the sticky menu several times and finally order a dinner salad and a baked potato.

  “If only my dad knew the secret to getting me to eat vegetables,” I say, fiddling with my cutlery now that I no longer have a menu to hide behind. “I could happily go the rest of my life without ever eating junk food again.”

  Jason looks at me, but his face is blank. It makes him scary.

  “That podcast about the study of volcanic eruptions was pretty interesting,” I say. Actually, I thought it was just all right, but Jason seemed to be paying attention to it.

  Jason holds up his empty pint glass, signaling to our waiter, who is rushing by.

  “Guess you’re planning to walk to the hotel,” I say.

  Jason says nothing.

  “Are you sure you trust me to drive a tenth of a mile?”

  Silence. I try to wait him out, but it’s clear that I’m the only one waiting. Jason is content to stare out the window.

  “Are you just not going to talk to me again?”

  He skewers me with his intense stare. “You tell me. You’re the expert on how I think.”

  “I am really sorry about that,” I say. “We both crossed some boundaries. Let’s agree to be civil.”

  “Civil,” Jason says with a little laugh. After that, I don’t hear his voice again until the end of the meal, when he asks the waiter for a slice of apple pie with whipped cream, and the bill.

  Which he pays before I can.

  Jason tosses the car keys at me as we exit the restaurant. He walks off.

  I didn’t drink anything, so I drive out of one parking lot and into the next one, beating Jason by mere seconds.

  This hotel has a modern brick exterior. Maybe the soap won’t burn my skin and the mattress won’t be full of poking springs.

  “I’ll handle the room.” I throw the keys at Jason, grab my duffel, and head into the lobby, which smells overwhelmingly of lemon cleaning products.

  The clerk is a tidy woman about my age with pockmarked skin, heavy eyeliner, thick glasses, and a blank name tag.

  “One room with two beds, please,” I say, giving her a friendly smile.

  “We’ve only got smoking left. Most of our dual queen rooms are being renovated. If you want nonsmoking, it’s a single king-sized bed.”

  “Oh,” I say, dismayed. I remember having seen another hotel on the map, maybe twenty minutes away, but I just want to go to sleep. “Do the smoking rooms have a strong smell?”

  “Probably. They’re our pet-friendly rooms as well.”

  “Oh,” I say again. I could deal with smoke or dogs to avoid getting back into the car with Jason, but definitely not the two together. “Uh, I need to think for a moment.”

  “Well, we’ve got one room with two queens that’s nonsmoking.”

  “Really? Great.” I’m curious why she just said they don’t have any, but not curious enough to actually ask. “I’ll take that.”

  “So, it’s an accessible room. Company policy is that until eleven o’clock, I can only release it to people with disabilities.” Her black-lined eyes study me. “A lot of disabilities are invisible. I don’t need to know what yours is, just that you have one.”

  “I have to tell you that I have a disability?”

  She does a nod-shrug combo, then waits.

  “Yeah, so…” But I can’t bring myself to lie.

  One of Dad’s veteran friends used a wheelchair, and he always lost his shit whenever he had to wait for the dedicated accessible bathroom, and he hated when “fuck-wit teenagers take my parking space because they’re too fucking lazy to walk an extra three meters to buy their Juul refills.”

  With Uncle Tad’s ghost—not that he’s dead, just broke and living in Scotland with his boyfriend of thirty years—hovering at my shoulder, and Jason outside somewhere being the physical manifestation of everything I don’t want to become, I’m frozen.

  “Maybe you have bad eyesight,” the clerk says helpfully. “Or a headache. No one ever comes in this late, you know.”

&
nbsp; I want to point out that I just came in. “Eleven o’clock, right?” I look at my phone to check the time. That’s twenty-five minutes away.

  And I’ve also got a message from the only person in my address book. Jason wrote: ???????

  Pretty passive-aggressive for a murderous gangbanger, I think. If I didn’t have half the cash, I bet he would have driven off.

  “I’ll wait until eleven,” I say.

  The clerk shrugs again, but I can tell she’s downgraded her opinion of me. It doesn’t matter. I’m doing the right thing, and I’m the one who has to be able to look at myself in the mirror.

  When I exit the hotel, Jason approaches, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. We have to wait half an hour for a nonsmoking room with two beds.”

  “The parking lot is mostly empty.”

  “Renovations. They have one room, but it’s handicap accessible and they’re not supposed to release it until eleven.”

  “I’ll handle this.” Jason walks into the hotel, disappearing from view.

  Irritated, I follow him. He’s already reached the reception desk, where the clerk is smiling shyly.

  My eyes roll even though no one is paying attention to me. Yes, he’s hot, I want to say, but be careful what you wish for. He’s bad news.

  “What rooms are available right now?” Jason asks her. He’s abrupt, not even trying to be charming, but the way the nameless clerk bats her eyes, you’d think he just proposed to her.

  “Whatever you need.” The clerk looks at me. “Are you two together?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Unfortunately,” Jason says, “we are.”

  I want to explain that I meant we’re not a romantic couple, but that would make us seem even stranger.

  “We’ve got plenty of king-size beds,” she says. “In nonsmoking. That’s what you wanted, right?” This is directed at me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Do you have two king beds in one room?”

  “No.” She eyes Jason up and down. “Maybe you have a disability?”

  Then I get to stand there and listen while the clerk explains the whole thing. Jason side-eyes me, his lips quirked humorlessly.