I stare at his hand wrapped around my fist. “I’m done punching you. Let go.”
“I don’t know if I can. This isn’t the first time you’ve been unpredictably violent.”
“When you annoy me, I hurt you.” I say. “Seems very predictable to me.”
“I don’t think that defense is going to hold up in a court of law when you’re being tried for assault and battery. Maybe we could find some anger management course to enroll you in once we get to Miami.”
He loosens his grip, but he doesn’t let go. I yank my hand free. He puts his back on the steering wheel, and we both stare straight ahead. Once we get to Miami. When we get to Miami, Marcel is going to drop me off at Emilio’s apartment, and we won’t ever see each other again. He knows that. I know that.
“Or maybe I’ll just mention it to Emilio,” he adds. “He has the most to benefit from you getting psychiatric help for that temper.”
“I don’t lose my temper when I’m with Emilio.”
“I bet.”
“I don’t. He doesn’t intentionally piss me off.”
Marcel smirks.
“What’s that look supposed to mean?”
“There was no look.”
“Seriously, what?”
“Nothing. It just doesn’t sound like very much fun, being with someone who doesn’t rile you up. That’s all.”
“We have fun.”
“Okay.”
“And since when are you a relationship expert?” I say.
“Since never. Go to sleep. I might need you to drive later.”
I recline the seat and roll away from him to face the window. It’s easier to be sad when nobody can see your face. This bruise inside my chest shouldn’t be there—I should be relieved we got past the border. I should be thinking about how many hours I am from having Emilio’s arms around me. I close my eyes, but I can’t get comfortable. “I need the blanket,” I mumble, and crawl over the seats to find it.
“There’s a pillow in the back if you want it. And would you mind bringing the cooler up here?”
I find the pillow and a small cooler beside his duffel bag. It’s surprisingly heavy. “What’s in here?”
“Soda. You can help yourself.”
“Maybe later.” I bring it up to him.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just tired.” I gesture to the backseat. “I think I’m gonna sleep back there.”
He doesn’t argue.
I stretch out on the third row, and even with a seat belt digging into my hip, I’m more comfortable by myself. Marcel’s sympathy feels more dangerous than his teasing, probably because it reminds me that I am using him. I’m not going to think about it. He offered to do this.
The hope that I might dream of Emilio pulls me under, but I’m too tired to dream about anything.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
TWENTY-SIX
Light. I can feel it before my eyes are open. It’s not the stabbing morning light that cuts through the crack in your blinds and burns a hole in your head, but a gradual lifting of darkness. It’s warm and yellow before you even notice it’s there.
I don’t open my eyes. That would force me to acknowledge a list of ugly realities: where I am, what I’m doing, what a huge mistake it is, etc. But now I’ve thought too much, and it’s all flooding in. I’m going back to Miami. Marcel is taking me there. Emilio doesn’t want me there. My father can’t know I’m there.
And that’s just the surface. The next layer is relearning what still makes me sick, even though I should be used to it by now. My father. Who he is. Emilio. What he does.
I force my eyes open and sit up. It still smells like animals.
“Hey,” Marcel says. “I thought you might be dead.”
I blink and wipe the sleep from my eyes. “How long did I sleep?”
“I don’t know. It’s ten.”
“In the morning?”
Marcel lifts his eyes from the road, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Right. I mean, obviously morning. I can’t believe I slept for that long, though.”
“I was sure you’d wake up when I stopped for gas,” he says.
“We stopped? Did you get some food?” I make my way back up to the front, but my seat is now covered in candy wrappers.
“Yeah, but I ate it all trying to stay awake. I think we’re about a half hour from Lancaster. We can stop there.”
I stuff the wrappers into a plastic bag, toss it on the floor, and sit down. “You look exhausted.”
“This is what five energy drinks in one night looks like.”
“Why didn’t you just pull over and sleep?”
“I thought you wanted to get there as soon as possible.”
“I do, but I don’t want you to kill yourself.”
Kill yourself. I cringe, but Marcel pretends he didn’t hear it. “Can you drive after we stop for food?”
“Sure.” I buckle my seat belt and pull my hair up into a ponytail. My teeth feel gritty, and I probably look like I’ve been sleeping on my face for the last eight hours, but that hopeless ache is gone. We could be in Miami by tomorrow.
“I’m glad you’re up,” he says. “I was starting to go crazy. I even listened to some self-help audiobook I found in the glove box. I’m pretty sure my mom put it there for Lucien. She’s a big fan of motivation in a can.”
“Yeah, how was it?”
“I’m now ready to embrace my authentic self and nurture my dreams.”
“Beautiful.”
Snow stretches to the horizon in every direction except for the narrow gray ribbon of road carved into it. The sky is bluer than Marcel’s pool. Wherever Emilio and I end up going, I want the sky to be blue like that.
“Question,” Marcel says, interrupting my thoughts. “Emilio doesn’t know you’re coming.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Thanks, I’m getting there. Why don’t you call him and tell him? I mean, he’ll be happy to see you, right? What’s with the secrecy?”
The good thing about a sky that blue is that it pulls your eyes up from dreariness. It makes you forget the less beautiful parts of whatever is below.
“Valentina?”
“He told me not to come.”
“What?”
I clear my throat. “He told me not to come. He said it isn’t safe.”
“Then why are—”
“Because I can help him, and I’m tired of waiting to be rescued like some damsel in distress. And I think there’s something going on that he’s not telling me.”
He gives me a sideways glance.
“What?”
“Nothing. That wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Don’t lecture me. You only know the bad things about him, but he has to pretend to be that person. You don’t know who he really is.”
“But you do.”
I ignore the skepticism in his voice. “Yes.”
Marcel doesn’t say anything else.
We stop at an IHOP for breakfast, and I use the facilities to brush my teeth and change my clothes. After we’ve stuffed ourselves with banana waffles (me) and chocolate chip pancakes (him), we swing by a gas station to top off the tank.
“Are you sure you don’t mind driving?” Marcel asks as I adjust my seat and mirrors. He’s already reclined the passenger seat, folded the pillow beneath his head, and cocooned himself in the blanket.
“Of course. I just stay on I-81?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Preferably going south.”
“Right.”
His eyes are shut by the time I’ve pulled out of the gas station, and he’s snoring lightly after two minutes.
Driving isn’t bad, at least not for the first few hours. Bald, snow-patched hills roll by, and it’s easy to get lost in the monotony, let m
y best memories take over. Like that windy day in Rome last fall when my sisters went boot shopping and Papi took me with him to galleries. He critiqued and browsed and bought, asking me, And what do you think of this one? over and over as we wandered past paintings. I’d been tagging along all my life, but for some reason I was suddenly old enough for my opinion to mean something.
In between stops, we had lunch at a restaurant with a patio. Canary-colored tablecloths flapped in the wind like wings, anchored by vases of scarlet geraniums. Papi ordered me lobster mushroom ravioli that tasted earthy and salty. We dipped chunks of bread in a swirl of tangy balsamic and oil, and chewed, and talked about the paintings we still had to see.
He talked like he loved the art. I thought he did.
Strange. At some point his truths became his lies, but I can’t see the line separating them. And do his admirable qualities cancel out any of his sins? I don’t think so. Even if a person can be divided up like that—into truths and deceptions, good deeds and bad ones—and they cancel each other out like pluses and minuses in a gigantic life equation, he’d still never make it to zero. I don’t even know a fraction of what he’s done, but I know enough to see his love for art can’t redeem him. His love for me can’t do that either.
This is the problem. I let my thoughts take the good memories and turn them bad. All of them.
Marcel grunts and rolls over so he’s facing me. Sleep makes his face serene.
Hating him seems like a long time ago. I don’t feel pity anymore either. Something about him has changed, and he’s not so pitiable now. Thinking about his life makes me sad, but that’s different.
I turn on the radio. Keeping it soft so it won’t wake Marcel, I cycle through the stations. But even when I land on a familiar song, the lyrics slide off me and the music is annoying, so I turn it off and start listening to the first CD of Finding Your Authentic Self. Within five minutes my authentic self is severely annoyed by the patronizing voice and message, but I can’t bring myself to turn it off. It’s hypnotic. I hate it, but it’s strangely soothing too. And there’s something appealing about the idea that I could listen to this woman tell me all the keys to happiness and then I’d have it.
When the first CD ends, the second begins automatically, and I don’t stop it. What else have I got to do?
Five discs later my brain is mush and the only thing my authentic self is telling me is that I have to use the bathroom.
Marcel lifts his head as the car slows on the exit ramp. “You didn’t kill us,” he says, and yawns. “Good job.”
“You were worried?”
“Nah. You don’t seem like the bad-driver type.”
“As if you can tell.”
“With girls? Yeah, I can.”
“This oughta be good.” I turn into a kitschy Greek restaurant, complete with columns and chipped statues lining the path from the nearly full parking lot.
“The bad drivers are spazzes. The good drivers are sexy.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Is Greek okay?”
“Yeah. And you should be flattered.”
“I’m too disturbed to be flattered.”
He gets out of the car. “You know it’s true.”
I get out of the car too. My legs feel weak, and I’m suddenly starving. “And there are only two types of girls?”
“Fundamentally, yeah.”
“My authentic self is appalled by the misogynistic crap that’s coming out of your mouth.”
“Oh no,” he groans. “You listened to it?”
I follow him up the walkway. “My IQ dropped at least ten points from beginning to end.”
He holds the door open for me. “I warned you.”
Inside is packed.
“Game weekend,” our server tells us with an eye roll, as if we’re locals ourselves and just as annoyed with the pesky alumni clogging up the tables. “It’ll be a tomb again by Monday.”
“I hope this is good,” Marcel whispers to me as she wipes down our table.
“This many West Virginians can’t be wrong,” I whisper back.
“Good or bad, we’ll be sweating garlic for a week. I’m sure Emilio will be thrilled to have you back in his arms.”
I have no comeback.
Cutlery clanking relentlessly against plates and dozens of conversations should cover the echo of what he just said. But the words are still there, still loud, still bouncing back and forth between us. Marcel’s face is impassive as he ducks into the booth. I don’t sit. I rest my fingertips on the wet table, which, even after the wipe down, feels like it’s coated in the grease of a thousand spilled meals.
He looks up. “You staying?”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I mumble, and leave him to peruse the sticky menu.
I use the toilet, then stare at my haggard reflection. My authentic self looks like hell. I pull out the small bit of makeup I have in my purse and try to fix things, but the effort looks too obvious. I certainly don’t want Marcel thinking I’m trying to look good for him. I wipe it off and go back to the table.
The menu is long, and the descriptions of most of the entrées are similar. I look around at the food on the other tables. It all looks the same too.
Eventually, the waitress comes back and takes our order: moussaka for Marcel, artichoke pie for me. “It’ll be awhile,” she explains as she scribbles on her pad of paper. “The kitchen is backed up, and Debbie’s son has the pukes, so we’re short staffed out here.”
“No problem,” Marcel says, handing her our menus. Once she’s gone, he adds, “I hope Debbie’s son didn’t get the pukes from eating here.”
“So how far are we from Miami?”
“About halfway, so thirteen hours.”
“Uuggggh.” I put my forehead on the table and immediately regret it. Sticky. I actually hear my skin peeling off the surface when I lift it again. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I think we should take a break and spend the night here.”
“I don’t think they’ll let us sleep in this booth.”
“I meant in a hotel with showers and real beds. How much of a hurry are you in to get there? It’s not like he’s expecting you.”
He’s right. There’s no deadline, no set event I’m trying to make, so why do I feel this unsettling urgency? “I guess we could stay here tonight. If we leave early tomorrow, we could be there by evening, right?”
Marcel shrugs. “Sure. We could leave at seven and be there at nine or ten p.m. with a few stops.”
When we’re done with our meal, we find a Holiday Inn close to the highway, and Marcel checks us in while I tidy the car. I watch him saunter back, a little-boy grin on his face, and I’m struck again by the transformation. A few weeks ago he was sobbing in a movie theater, and a few weeks before that he was shooting up and checking out.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” he says.
“Good news first.”
“They have a pool.”
“Great, I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“What?” he exclaims, getting back in the car. “Who goes to Florida without a swimsuit? And what did you do with the swimsuit you’ve been wearing at my pool?”
“It was my roommate’s, and I have plenty of swimsuits waiting for me in Miami. Why are you getting in the car?”
“So we can park on the other side. It’s closer to our room.”
“Our room?”
“That’s the bad news. They’ve only got one left.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you kidding me? This is like a bad sitcom. I get the bed.”
“Let’s wrestle for it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But it’s a king,” he argues, pulling into a parking spot on the other side. “Are you seriously going to make me sleep on the floor after an entire night of driving?”
“Whatever,” I grumble. “Just stay on your side.”
He pulls two key cards out of his pocket. “Kidding. Your r
oom.” He holds one out to me. “And my room,” he waves the other one.
I grab the card.
“I can’t believe you were willing to share a bed with me. There are a bunch of other hotels in town you could have insisted we check out.”
“All right, shut up.” I get out of the car, grab my mandolin and bag of clothes, and head toward the nearest entrance.
“We can still snuggle if you really want,” he calls after me. “I’m just next door.”
The room is small but appears clean, and the bed feels gloriously soft after the car seat and my cot back in Montreal. I toss the mandolin and my bag on the chair, strip off my grimy clothes, and step into the shower. It’s freezing at first. Then scalding. I can’t seem to find an in-between, so I stick with scalding and let it burn the dirt and sweat and garlic stench off me.
By this time tomorrow I’ll be with Emilio.
I step out of the shower scrubbed new, and wrap myself in the terry-cloth robe. It’s a little stiff, but I can almost imagine I’m at a spa and not a Holiday Inn. I wander out into the tiny room and stretch out on the full-size bed, then marvel at how beautiful it feels to be able to lie like this, none of my limbs touching each other. My cot was barely big enough to roll over in.
The remote beckons from the bedside table, so I pick it up and turn on the TV. Finger-combing the tangles out of my hair with one hand, I flip through channels, trying to find something interesting. Anything interesting. I flip past shows I haven’t seen in months, shows I used to care about, stopping for a minute or two at the most. They seem so inconsequential. Stupid, even.
I take the mandolin out of the case and pluck at the strings, while watching a paunchy celebrity chef make Italian meatballs. Italy. That’s a thought. Those islands—Sardinia, Sicily, and the other one I can never remember—are supposed to be beautiful, but I wonder if they’re remote enough. I wonder if Emilio has ever been there.
The knock at the door startles me, even though it could only be one person. “Yeah?” I yell without getting up.
“Come swimming with me,” Marcel calls.
I grumble, turn the TV off, and drag myself off the bed and to the door. Marcel is on the other side, already in his swimming trunks.
“I already told you I don’t have a suit,” I say.
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