Meet Me Here

by Bryan Bliss

  It feels weird saying the words, as if I’m finally giving them life. And now that they’re upright and moving, I realize that I can no longer control them. They’ll run across the countryside, ravaging villages. It makes my truck’s immobilization hurt worse than my leg, a heavy reality that sits on my shoulders.

  I still can’t read Mallory’s face or her tone as she says, “Are you going to get in trouble? Like, with the government?”

  “I haven’t shipped yet. I can still get out of it,” I say, but even those words seem wrong. It’s not a technicality I’m breaking. It’s a commitment that goes far beyond how many times I’ve actually signed my name.

  And if anybody knows this better than I do, it’s Mallory. She closes her eyes and asks the question that scares me most of all: “What about your dad?”

  I could call and wake up the recruiter right now. Despite all the bowling trips, the pizza, the rah-rah meetings.There’s no loyalty to him or the clipboard he used to sign me up. And if I’m honest, I can even deal with putting my head down and walking past all the people in this town who thought I was brave, a hero. But telling my dad is completely different.

  “I guess he’ll figure it out when the recruiter calls,” I say.

  She thinks about this for a few seconds and then says, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “You could tell him,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah. That would go over amazingly, I’m sure.”

  “So that’s it? You just . . . leave?” Mallory looks up and down the road, as if she were waiting for somebody. “That doesn’t sound like you. At all.”

  It’s a knockout punch, and my hands are down. Everybody—even Mallory—thinks I’m something I’m not. But I don’t know how to stop what I’ve set in motion at this point. Not that there’s much of a plan left. By the time I can get back to the truck, it will be either gone or completely stripped down to the frame, the parts sold. So not only do I have to walk into the living room and tell Dad I’m not going to the army, I also get to tell him I lost the truck. I can see the disappointment form in his face, the lines creasing his forehead. He’ll grab me by the elbow and force me into the car. We won’t stop until I’m standing outside the recruiting station, a rucksack in one hand and a bus ticket in the other.

  I glance at Mallory unsure of what I’ll see, what she’ll say to me. And at first she isn’t showing me anything. Her face is absent of emotion, and her mouth is open, just a little bit. But then the tension in her face breaks.

  “You don’t have to leave,” she says. “You changed your mind. People do it every day.”

  I want to believe her, but I stepped off the path a long time ago. And I have no idea how to get back on it. I have no idea how I can fix any of this. Mallory takes my hand.

  “We could talk to your mom and dad: you and me.” Her voice is emotional, adamant. “Everybody should be able to change their mind, Thomas. We can do this if you want to. Right now.”

  Ahead of us, Jake has stopped walking. From this distance he almost looks normal. I turn to Mallory and say, “It doesn’t even matter anymore. Without the truck, I’m done.”

  Wayne yells something at us, but I can’t make it out; they’re too far away. They head back, and Mallory jabs a thumb at the trees that line the road. “Our only option is to live in the woods then. You like squirrel? I bet you’d look awesome with a beard.” She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Don’t need a truck for that.”

  That smile. I can feel it in my chest. I’ve been missing it for seven years. Having somebody who would walk into traffic for me. She pulls me close to her, into a hug that seems to last forever. I feel her phone buzzing in her pocket, but she ignores it, only letting go of me when the headlights from a passenger van peek up over the oncoming hill, filling the dark night with light.

  It’s a church van, FIRST BAPTIST printed on the side in electric blue. When Mallory sees the van, she goes stiff, barely moving her lips as she speaks.

  “Remember, I did this for you.”

  Will opens the door of the van and jumps down. Wayne and Sinclair are throwing their hands in the air like the Lord has answered a prayer, sent a boat to escape the Flood. When they see Will, they stop. Sinclair hides his face below his NASCAR hat, and all Wayne says is “Damn.”

  Jake jogs up to the back of the van, thanking Will as he climbs in and sits in the backseat. Wayne and Sinclair follow suit, but neither me nor Mallory moves. Will looks at me, then Mallory and shakes his head. When he does it, Mallory makes like she’s going to go to him but stops herself. For the first time I see the depth of Mallory’s pain as her eyes search his face.

  “Will—” she says.

  “Just get in the van,” he says, turning his back on us.

  Mallory looks at the ground and mumbles, “I didn’t know who else to ask. I’m sorry, but you can’t walk home on that leg.”

  The van comes to life in a low rumble, and I look at Will, staring straight ahead. “I don’t think he wants to give me a ride.”

  “Well, yeah. Probably not. But you’re the reason I asked him. So it’s not like I’m going to let him leave you here.”

  I should grab her and disappear into the woods. Take her to the Grover, become the next urban legend, the crazy friends who disappeared on graduation night. Ghosts. Psychos. Don’t ever go in there, man. That’s the real story. At the very least, I should thank her because when’s the last time anybody’s done something like this for me?

  “So this is it,” I say.

  “For tonight.” Will honks the horn, and Mallory sighs. “All right, you ready for this?”

  I look at the van and so does she, and without a word, we both climb in.

  I’m in the back row with Jake, the smell of cigarettes and beer coming off Sinclair and Wayne. Sunday, when a pack of Baptists hops in their van, they’ll find it marinated in sin. The only sound is the hum of the tires. Nobody talks, and Will doesn’t turn on the radio. Mallory sits in the passenger seat, but she and Will couldn’t be farther apart. Every time Mallory tries to say something to him, he turns away, as if staring out the window will increase their separation. More than once I catch him staring at me in the rearview mirror.

  Fifteen minutes later we’re downtown. Five more, and Will has the van parked at the Waffle House. Wayne’s truck is still there from what seems like hours ago. Now Will and Mallory will fade away together, and I’ll be left to figure out what to do with Jake, with the rest of my life. I’m barely out of the van when Will comes rushing toward me.

  He looks me right in the eye and says, “So I guess you found Mallory, huh?”

  “Okay, man,” I say, starting away from the group; this isn’t going to end well for anyone. He comes charging again and pushes me into the Waffle House window.

  “Just a friend, right?” he says.

  “Will, stop.” Mallory grabs him by the arm, but he only gets in my face closer, louder.

  “I was trying to help her out,” I say. “I told you to leave her alone for the night.”

  “So you can make your move? Right.” He looks at Mallory and says, “Is this why you did it?”

  When I try to slip away from him, he pushes me back into the glass, harder this time. Behind me, I can feel the people in the Waffle House staring at us. I swallow my own anger, the desire to push him back.

  “Is he why you did it?” Will asks Mallory again, louder this time. He turns back to me, finger in my face. “You were probably in on it the whole time. You’re a fucking coward, Thomas.”

  I don’t really see what happens next, but Will goes flying backward. Jake falls on top of him and starts yelling about respect and how Will doesn’t know the first thing about honor or courage. Will keeps trying to turn away from Jake—his eyes wide with fear—but Jake grabs his chin and forces him to make eye contact.

  “Call my brother a coward? The night before he goes in? Are you fucking crazy? I’d kill you for less.”


  Will looks terrified as Jake pins him harder against the ground. And he should be worried. I’ve never seen Jake so—so out of control.

  “Thomas, do something!” Mallory screams, pushing me toward Jake. But how do I stop this? How can I do anything for Jake? I try to pull him off, but Jake shoves me away.

  “Hell, no, Thomas. He can’t do this, not after everything I’ve tried to do to keep you safe.”

  I don’t have a chance to figure out what Jake has done for me; how he could possibly think he’s kept me safe.

  “Let him go,” Mallory yells, trying to pull Jake off Will. But he’s on a mission, singular in his focus.

  “You’re going to apologize,” Jake tells Will, raising a fist. Mallory screams again, and Will starts talking fast.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But what do you expect me to do? She’s out with him all night, and I don’t even get a reason.” Will turns his head to face me, pleading. “We’re supposed to get married tomorrow, man. And then she tells me it’s not happening; just like that, it’s over. And then she spends all night with you.”

  Time—the world—stops moving. Even Jake looks at me. Mallory’s face is as blank with shock.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he says.

  Jake returns his focus to Will. “That doesn’t excuse shit.”

  He puts his fist in the air, and Will closes his eyes, bracing for the impact. Before he can throw a punch, Wayne tackles Jake, followed by Sinclair. I’m still trying to process everything as Jake brushes them aside and starts back at Will.

  Wayne yells my name, waking me up. “Get Jake the hell out of here. Now!”

  Jake picks Will up off the concrete, both fists in his shirt as he pushes him against the window. Will keeps repeating the same word—please —over and over again. Mallory runs to Jake, trying to get Will loose, but he ignores her, too.

  “Jake,” I say. Then again, louder. When I put my hand on his shoulder, he spins around with his fist raised.

  “Leave him alone,” I say.

  “Hell, no. This doesn’t happen,” he says. “Not tonight. Not right before you go in. Not when I haven’t taken care of this.”

  He shakes his backpack in my face, as if proving a point. When he turns back to Will, I grab the backpack off his shoulder.

  “What the hell is this?” When I go to open it, he spins around and pushes me hard.

  “Drop it!” His eyes go from anger to panic, and when I don’t answer him, when I start to open the backpack, he hits me. One shot to my eye, like a strike of lightning.

  Will bolts away from the restaurant, grabbing Mallory and making a run for the church van. When he gets the van started, they peel out of the small parking lot. I expect Jake to chase them onto the highway, into the night. Instead, he spits, picks up the backpack, and then walks inside the restaurant.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I try convincing myself to start walking again. Walk until the sun comes up, until I hit the state line. If it weren’t for my leg, I would, I tell myself. So I lean against the side of the building, refusing to look through the windows at Jake or Wayne or Sinclair.

  Wayne comes outside and hands me a washrag filled with ice. “For the eye,” he says.

  He works a toothpick between his teeth for a minute before saying, “Okay, so Jake calmed down. It’s all I could do to keep that waitress from calling the law, let alone get Jake to sit down. I think you should probably come in there and talk to him.”

  “He can go to hell,” I say, carefully putting the ice against my eye. It will be black, that’s certain. And only now, as the adrenaline is beginning to wear off, do I feel the pain. The weight of Jake’s fist against my face. How pissed I actually am.

  Wayne cocks his head to the side. “Yeah, well—” He pauses and then says, “How about I drive you guys somewhere?”

  I make myself turn and look at Jake over my shoulder. He’s sitting across from Sinclair, stiff as a board. Same as always. It’s like he turned off the power, which gets my blood going even more. There’s nothing I could do—punch through the glass, jump into traffic—that would even register with him right now.

  “Fuck this,” I say, trying to stand up. The combined pain from my leg and eye makes me nauseated. Wayne says something else about Jake, but it barely registers. I have no idea what I’m going to do now or why I even cared about what was happening with Jake. I should’ve joined the chorus of our family, the rest of this town: he’ll be fine. Don’t worry.

  I drag myself over to the side of the building, where nobody can see me, and throw up. Wayne comes running up behind me.

  “Shit, are you okay?”

  I fall back against the building, my body hot on the bricks as I lean my head back. Along with all the food, the water, I got rid of any fight I have left. I’m done.

  The door opens, and I still think I’m going to hear a voice from the past. Jake telling me to get up, to be tough. All the same bullshit. Instead, a woman speaks.

  “He’s not drunk, is he?” the waitress asks. “Because if he is, you guys need to go. I should’ve called the cops when they started fighting.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I say.

  This is an all-natural debilitation. To think you don’t even need to drink or do drugs to feel so shitty, so helpless. As if to convince her, I look up and try to smile with conviction. Anything to get her back inside the restaurant.

  “He really got you,” she says. “I can still call the cops if you want.”

  I shake my head, everything spinning. “No. He’s my brother.”

  The waitress looks confused for a second but then says, “Was it about that girl?”

  I can’t help myself, I laugh. “No.”

  And for a second it’s like Jake isn’t sitting in the restaurant—a robot, a mannequin—and suddenly it’s only Mallory. Mallory, who’s getting married. Who’s spent the last months, all night, pretending, just like me. I don’t know if I should be angry or impressed by the fact that we both are so good at it.

  The waitress gives me another strange look, sighs. “Well, if you’re not drunk and you promise there won’t be any more fights”—she motions to the restaurant—“then come inside and get some food. You probably need it.”

  “Thanks,” Wayne says, winking. “Is that on the house, good-looking guy discount?”

  The waitress doesn’t turn around as she says, “It’s full price, the dumbass high school boy special.”

  Wayne chuckles to himself. He sits down against the building and rubs his hands together. My stomach rumbles, from hunger or sickness. Wayne looks over his shoulder, up through the glass windows of the restaurant.

  “She’s going to give us a discount,” he says. “Trust me.”

  I don’t say anything, and Wayne keeps rubbing his hands together nervously. He starts and stops a few sentences before sighing and finally saying, “So, you and Mallory. You’re not hitting that, right?”

  “No,” I say.

  Wayne looks relieved. “Okay, at least this isn’t really fucked up. I mean, it’s definitely fucked up. But if you and her were getting it on?” He shakes his head. “They’re getting married.”

  When I don’t engage, he goes back to rubbing his hands and sighing. “Listen, I realize you and Jake aren’t exactly down with each other right now. But I can’t leave him here. What happens if he, um, well, you know? Freaks out again.”

  Then he’ll have to deal with the consequences. Or even better, Mom and Dad will have to deal with it. But at what cost? I look into the restaurant. It’s full of men and women in blue work shirts, their names stitched above their pockets, all of them from the hosiery mill two blocks north of here. Most look older than they should, cracked and worn under the fluorescent lighting. Some laugh; others pull unlit cigarettes from half-empty packs sitting on the table, bringing them to their lips by habit. Every one of them looks tired, and not because they work the swing shift. It’s the kind of tired I’ve felt for months, the kind that doesn’t
go away no matter how much you sleep.

  Wayne studies my face before clapping his hands together. “Well, hell. I need some food to soak up all this alcohol. What do you say?”

  Wayne stands up and, offering me his hand, pulls me to my feet. Inside, Jake is ignoring a plate of eggs. Maybe Sinclair ordered them, or maybe the waitress just brought them out. Either way, it doesn’t matter. If this is how he wants to be, that’s on him. I can’t hold any of this together, and I’m not going to try anymore.

  “I don’t want to eat,” I say. “Let’s get him in the truck and get out of here, okay?”

  Wayne nods and takes a step toward the restaurant as I limp behind him. Before we walk in the door, Wayne stops me. He looks inside, then back to me.

  “So, this is all because of the war? I guess I didn’t realize it was that bad, but when he went after Will? When he hit you? Damn.” He moves when a truck driver and his wife come through the door. Wayne smiles at both of them, nodding until they’re out of earshot.

  “I don’t care what’s wrong with him,” I say, and the muscles in my stomach clench. “He’s fucked up, and I guess that’s the end of it.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asks.

  “Nothing. What can I do?”

  The bluntness, the flat way the words come from my mouth, surprises Wayne. “What about your parents? Are they going to do something?”

  “What do you expect them to do?” I ask. “What would happen if Jake had to go to the head doctor? What would people say? Suddenly he’s not Jake the hero. He’s Jake, guy who beats people up in the parking lot of the Waffle House.”

  Wayne looks away, picking at some dead skin on the side of his thumb. My instinct is to apologize, to couch my sudden honesty with a reassurance that yes, everything will be okay. Jake will be okay. But I don’t want to do that anymore. And more important: I don’t know if it’s true.

  “Let’s just go and get him,” I say.

  I limp into the restaurant, and a guy in the corner, drunk off his ass, stands up and starts clapping. He throws a few punches before falling back into his booth, laughing it up with his friends. When I get to Jake and Sinclair, I don’t sit down.