by Lindy Zart
“I take it you grew up in some rich family where everything was proper, right? ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ were part of everyday conversation.” I swallow the last drop of orange juice and move on to the water.
“I take it you didn’t,” is his curt response.
I view the hills and valleys in the distance, their colors and shapes muted. The words come too easily. “My father was born into the mafia, and when he was old enough to make his own decisions, he left. There was a price on his head for doing so. I was an only child, and my mom died when I was three. It was just me and my dad and we spent most of my childhood running from state to state. Manners weren’t a priority.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. “You do realize I don’t believe a thing you’re saying, right?”
One shoulder shrugs. “You don’t have to believe it. I know it to be true.”
“Is there a reason for the lies, or are you just bored?”
My brain whirs, shift gears, and starts on another route. “I know your name, but you don’t know mine. Try to guess it before we reach North Dakota.”
Blake pauses. “Or you could just tell me.”
“I could.” I smile. “But that wouldn’t be much fun, would it?”
“I think your idea of fun would probably be considered warped compared to most people.”
I settle into my seat, watching a sign for Fargo, North Dakota go by. It’s two hundred thirty-four miles away, according to the sign. “I’ll let you know the first letter. It’s an O.”
“What about it being safer for me if I don’t know your name?” he taunts, passing a small, red car full of teenagers. The driver waves and I wave back.
“I won’t know you for much longer. What can it hurt?” I roll down my window to alleviate the stuffy heat, the wind whipping my hair around my face. For some reason, I want him to know my real name before we part ways. Call it my ego, but I do not want to be entirely forgotten by Blake Malone. Everyone I know has some tainted memory of me. It would be nice if someone could remember me as quirky, yes, but also untroubled. “First, though, tell me why that guy at the motel acted the way he did.”
“I told him you had murderous tendencies, and that they were set off by breakable beds in motel rooms.”
I turn my head and stare at Blake. I’m shocked, and irritated, and impressed.
He fights a grin, eventually winning as his features smooth into a brood I’ve seen on his face more times than anything else.
“You’re a liar too,” I accuse with little ire. How can I be mad at him for something I routinely do?
“I never said I wasn’t. I’m just apparently better at it than you.” The word that next leaves his mouth stuns me. “Opal.” He glances at me, pulling his gaze from me before I am ready.
I blink. “How did you figure that out?”
“It’s on the bottom of your bag. I wasn’t sure that was your name until you told me it starts with an O. Why all the covertness?”
The memory of a face with chubby cheeks, sparkling blue eyes, and an infectious laugh slams into me, taking my breath and any semblance of joy. A seven-year-old by the name of Paisley Jordan took black permanent marker and wrote my name on my bag without my knowledge. I couldn’t be upset with her, not when she later explained to me that she did it to officially brand something as mine after I told her I didn’t have anything.
I’d forgotten it was there, and without looking at my pink backpack, my fingers unconsciously brush across the textured fabric. It helps to not think of her. It helps to pretend my life before a few weeks ago never existed.
“Hey. Are you all right?” he asks when I remain silent.
“It’s a silly name,” I say in a quiet voice. The food I ate turns the fullness in my stomach to sourness and I press an arm to my abdomen, hoping the nausea passes. It’s a silly name I like to pretend isn’t mine. I like to pretend a lot of things.
“I guess some would say it is a silly name,” he agrees, glancing at me to catch the glower I don’t try to hide. He turns his eyes back to the road. “It’s also unique, like you.”
I’ve been told I’m unique before. It never sounded like a good thing to be, but when Blake says it, it does.
3
Blake
Opal is a terrible singer. Her voice is screechy and off-key, and when she reaches the especially high notes, it causes the skin around my mouth to tighten with discontent. But she bobs her head and taps her foot as she belts out Cyndi Lauper, and her enthusiasm pulls an undesired smile from me. Her lack of self-consciousness is refreshing, even if I want to clamp a muzzle over her mouth to end the torture.
With a sound of triumph, she pulls a candy bar from the front of her backpack and holds it up with sparkling eyes. It’s flattened and bent and partially unwrapped. Opal waves it around like it is a hundred-dollar bill. “I didn’t know this was in there.”
“It looks dead.”
Opal gives me a look as she removes the remaining wrapper from the chocolate. She picks off a piece of fuzz and rolls down the window to release it out into the wild. “It was never alive.”
“If candy bars could be dead, it would be.” I shift my eyes from the road to her and back. “You’re really going to eat that? How long has it been in there?”
With a shrug, she bites off half the smashed and crumbling bar in one take, and then offers what’s left to me. I shake my head, amazed by how quickly she demolishes the rest of it. She’s either starving, or has an unhealthy love for chocolate.
“So good,” she murmurs.
So gross, I think.
“Wait.” Opal flings out an arm and clips me in the jaw. “Did you see that? Pull over.”
“No,” I answer, and keep driving. We should reach North Dakota in another hour or two, and then we say goodbye. And I confront my past. Sweat breaks out on my forehead and I swallow down bitter fear at the thought of seeing my father.
“Come on, Blake, I want to take a closer look at something.”
“No.”
“Please?” Her honey eyes are wide and hopeful. Even as I scowl, I aim the truck to the side of the road.
She jumps from the Ford before I have it in park, and with her backpack in hand, sprints toward a billboard. My eyes slide along the curves and dips of her body as I follow at a slower pace. When Opal came out of the bathroom this morning in her tight pants and shirt, at first I thought I was dreaming the body before me. No way was it the same one I’d come to think of as hers.
Last night her jacket covered her chest and hips, and I was too distracted by circumstances to properly consider her bottom, but I’m not having that problem today. As far as I knew, she was bones without shape. Today, in the formfitting clothing, the woman suddenly has breasts, and hips, and a rounded ass my teeth ache to graze and nip.
Even her body is a lie.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she says with awe.
I squint my eyes against the sun, shaking my head at the picture on the monstrous sign Opal stands before with her head tipped back. It’s an advertisement for a circus three exits away. The image shows a lion with its mouth open and long, sharp teeth visible, a brown bear standing on its hind paws, and a funny-looking guy with a top hat and gold and red jacket framing his short build. It’s called Radley Family Circus and boasts that it’s “one of the country’s most popular attractions.”
I’m doubtful.
“It’s a sign,” I answer, returning my attention to Opal. Opal—an elegant name for an unrefined woman. Its contradiction is what makes it fit.
Her face scrunches up as she looks at me. “It’s not just a sign. It’s a symbol of every childhood joy wrapped up in a single photograph.”
I snort, the rays of the sun scorching the back of my neck. I went to a circus once, when I was eleven. I wasn’t impressed with the c
lowns or the animals. I wanted destruction and explosions and fire. I guess you could say my issues started at an early age.
“It’s a way to earn money at the expense of children,” I say. “The animals, along with the parents taking their kids out of a sense of obligation, aren’t happy, and the tricks are lame. The only ones who have any kind of fun are the naive kids who don’t know any better.”
The brown and gold of her eyes clash with emotion, and she looks down, hiding it. Her grip tightens on her backpack and she slings it over her shoulder as her eyes go back to the billboard. She says softly, “I’ve never been to a circus before.”
My teeth grind together and I fist my hands. I turn toward the truck, telling myself not to even respond. I’m sure it’s just another one of her lies. The sooner I get to North Dakota, the sooner I can get on with my life. It’s taken every drop of courage I have to get this far, and if I don’t keep going, I might not make it. Opal is a distraction, a disruption, and just because she maybe never experienced the circus scene as a kid, does not mean I am responsible for making sure she experiences it now. She is nothing to me. A stranger who coerced her way into catching a ride. A nuisance. One I’ll be glad to be rid of.
Regardless of all that, I find myself turning back to ask, “Have you really never been to a circus before, or is this another one of your lies?”
Her eyes are wide and unblinking. “I thought you had me all figured out. You tell me.”
Frustration builds, and a muscle jumps as I flex my jaw. “One hour. You get one hour at the circus and then we go, and if you’re not ready to go when that one hour is up, I’m still leaving. With or without you.” I feel it is necessary to accentuate that detail.
A gleam enters her eyes, and it’s slightly evil. “Two hours.”
“One hour,” I argue, stalking back to the truck.
Stones crunch under the weight of my boots and I resist the urge to kick them. She is under my skin. I hunch my shoulders like I can physically get her out of my system. It’s my own fault for giving in, but damn it, I know what it’s like to want things that others take for granted. This circus means nothing to me, but to her, it means a lot.
Unless I just got suckered into another one of her games.
“Two,” she tries again.
I whirl around, and not expecting her to be as close as she is, find her directly in front of me. Opal’s face bumps into my chest and I grab her arms to steady her, my body exceptionally happy to have her near. She smells like chocolate and caramel. Heat shoots through my body as blood flows to areas I don’t entirely want it to. Inches apart, and it feels like there is nothing between us—nothing but blazing attraction. Her skin singes mine, burns my hands where they rest on her biceps.
She stays still, her gaze carefully lifting to mine, as if pulled by forces out of her control. I want to look away, and I can’t. She looks like every bad decision I never regretted, and every one I have yet to make. This close, I notice the strands of gold and red in her mop of hair, and the dark ring of brown around her irises. The plump red of her lips tease me, knowing I wonder at the feel of them, and the taste. When they part, and her pupils dilate, I inhale raggedly. I feel my composure slip another notch.
Desire stares back at me, daring me to make a move.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers.
I blink, wondering how my thoughts came out of her mouth.
“You don’t look at me like that,” I echo darkly.
Opal’s eyes narrow. “Like what?”
“Like…” I gesture to her face. “Like that.”
“Because I have a mirror handy and know what you’re talking about.” She rolls her eyes at me. Rolls her eyes.
My features tighten. “If only you could speak without actually saying a word. I’d enjoy our time together so much more.”
“How do you suggest that happens?”
“Learn how to mime.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes again and a tick forms under my eye. “Can you let go of me now?”
I drop my hands and back up, the truck stopping my progress. I didn’t realize I was still touching her. My hands are shaking, and I clench them to hide it.
This isn’t me. This isn’t how I act around women, or ever.
I either take what I want, or I don’t want it enough.
I don’t second-guess myself. I don’t think about things too much. I don’t care about anyone more than myself. The last person I opened myself up to slammed me back closed without a second glance, and the thought of having that happen again puts a sour taste in my mouth. There is no way I’m risking looking like a fool again. And her—why her? She is a lying, seemingly homeless, most likely criminal woman who aggravates me.
I feel trapped by honey eyes and my inclination to gaze into them.
Opal is the first to break the thick silence, and when she does, her throaty voice glides along my senses. “Two hours, Blake. Just two. I won’t ask for anything else. I promise.”
Not trusting myself to speak, I turn without a word and get into the truck. Staring straight ahead. Not moving. Hands tight on the steering wheel. Muscles uncomfortably tense. Confused. Two hours. She’s asking for two hours. I don’t want to give her those two hours, because to me, it seems like I’m giving her a lot more than just one hundred twenty minutes of my time.
I dig in my pocket and find the silver Zippo lighter I always carry. It’s a memento, a reminder. A warning. I flip back the lid, and scrape the pad of my thumb along the thumbwheel. The rough edges dig into my skin as a flame, tall and narrow, shoots up. I tilt my head, studying the fire. It’s orange and yellow with a hint of blue—a perfect upside-down teardrop. I look at it until my fingers feel the heat, snapping it shut just as Opal climbs into her side of the truck.
She pauses with a good amount of air between her behind and the seat, her eyes locked on me. “What are you doing?”
“Contemplating finding cigarettes.” Or drugs. Or alcohol. It’s a crutch I can’t shake—this need for the things that can make oblivion descend. I’ll always want them. I’ll always have a decision to make. Every day I’ll have a choice. I’ve resigned myself to this never-ending fight against my own demons.
“Oh.” Opal sits down and buckles her seatbelt, setting the backpack on her lap. She turns her head and frowns at me. “Why don’t you get some then? Even though they cause cancer and periodontal disease, not to mention make your clothes and breath stink.”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
I shove the lighter in the front pocket of my jeans, and with a hand around the key in the ignition, twist my wrist. The engine jerks to life, and checking for oncoming traffic, I pull my most prized possession onto the highway. “I can’t get any cigarettes, because as of a few weeks ago, I became the new and improved Blake who doesn’t smoke cigarettes. I have to say, he can be a dick at times.”
She doesn’t reply.
“I guess I was that even before I stopped smoking,” I add in an afterthought.
A snort fills the cab. “Why did you decide to quit?”
“I was starting to enjoy life and needed an excuse to be miserable.”
“Why, really? And why keep a lighter when you don’t smoke?”
“I’m a pyromaniac.”
“Sure. Me too.”
I clench the steering wheel. “You’re asking me to tell you something about myself when you haven’t told me anything about you.”
Once again, Opal doesn’t respond.
To fill the silence, I turn on the radio and find an oldies station.
“Get carrots.”
My eyes shoot to her and back to the road. “What?”
Opal twists her body until she is partially facing me. The force of her gaze hollows out a bit of my soul. “Carrots. You need something to keep you busy so you aren�
��t thinking about smoking. Chew on carrots when you want a cigarette. It works. My ex-b—someone I used to know wanted to quit smoking, and they tried that. It helped them. Well, until they didn’t want to quit smoking anymore.”
Her ex. It’s no surprise she has an ex-boyfriend. Who doesn’t have an ex from some point in their past? I have my share of exes. What tweaks my attention is that she doesn’t want me to know she has an ex-boyfriend. This strikes me as odd and niggles at my brain. Why does it matter to her whether or not I know?
Her arm shoots out, and the next thing I know, we’re listening to rap, or some other form of noise, that is supposedly considered music. Glaring, I switch it back to the oldies station. “Don’t touch the radio.”
Opal scowls and it’s back to men singing about welcoming people to their house with champagne and playing too-loud music.
“You like this crap?” I’m offended on the behalf of sensitive ears worldwide.
“It has a good beat. And it’s better than the oldies crap you just had on.”
I push a button and it’s on oldies again.
Her fingers move for the radio and I slap at them. “I’m warning you, Opal.”
“Two hours, Blake,” she rejoins, her fingers once more outstretched. She catches me watching them and wiggles her fingers menacingly.
Eyes on the road, I take the exit to lead us to the circus mayhem. “You break this radio, and I break whatever is so precious to you inside your backpack.” I wouldn’t really, but she doesn’t know that.
Opal crosses her arms and faces forward, her chin protruding to show her annoyance. “Fine. We’ll listen to your music.” In a lower voice, she mutters, “Give it enough time and I’m sure every part of this truck will break on its own anyway, along with the radio.”
She doesn’t want me to know what’s inside the bag. Another mystery that is going to bother me until I figure it out.
“This was my grandfather’s truck,” I tell her, and then I wonder why. It isn’t like she cares about an old man who’s dead, or his truck.