The Road to You

by Piper Lennox

  My mind flips through last night. The way his fingertips and mouth danced across my nerve endings, how determined he was to please me first.

  His hand running through my hair afterwards, while I listened to his heartbeat and felt that restlessness fade again, knowing—no matter where this trip took me, or how it ended—the road at least led to one perfect moment.

  I shift into Drive. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t give you an out.”

  “Noted.”

  We get back on the route, his voice quieter than usual as he reads me each direction. I scratch my nose and smell syrup, stuck on my sleeve from breakfast, and realize I didn’t thank him.

  I almost do it now, but decide to be petty and let the thought slip away.

  “Are we just not going to talk, like, the entire trip?” he asks, after an hour of unbroken silence.

  I shrug. “So start a conversation.”

  “Okay.” He glances around the road, empty, save for a minivan with a stick-figure family on the back window. “What was your childhood like?”

  “Oh, God.”

  “What?”

  “That’s such a generic conversation starter.” I grope around the console for the drink I bought at the motel vending machine. He hands it to me. Once again, I purposely stop myself from thanking him. “Like anyone else’s childhood. Happy, well-rounded, all that.” When I go to set the drink down and miss the cupholder twice, he does it for me. “Except, like I said last night, my parents were way older than everyone else’s. But other than that, everything was average.”

  “Nobody’s childhood is ‘average,’” he counters.

  I think a minute. “Okay...my mom dying. I was thirteen.”

  “I’m sorry.” He waits a beat before asking what I knew he would: “How did she...?”

  “Colon cancer. It was really fast. I mean, compared to my dad dying. His kidneys were failing for over a year before he even told me.”

  “Yeah, that’s not average. Which means my conversation starter was not generic.”

  I roll my eyes. “How was yours? Aside from getting made fun of in Catholic school.”

  “It wasn’t Catholic,” he corrects, then adds, “I guess mine really was average, but for a pastor’s kid. I spent a lot of time involved with church activities and stuff. And I was in the Scouts until I was fourteen.”

  I burst out laughing. “Scouts? Really? All the way until you were a teenager?”

  “Make fun all you want, but I could survive in these woods with nothing but my pocketknife. Bet you couldn’t.”

  I don’t answer, still laughing.

  “Tillie was impressed.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Hey, which one of us lived with her for three years?” he teases. When my laughter finally stops, we glance at each other.

  “See?” he says. “The friends-only thing isn’t too bad. I make good conversation, apparently.”

  “I’ve had better.”

  Shepherd laughs now, the sound booming through the car. I look over just in time to catch the crinkle of his eyes.

  He is a good guy, overall. And a good friend—something I definitely need in my life right now. As flawed as I find his reasoning for “keeping things simple,” I’m starting to think my reaction was too dramatic. One amazing night aside, we haven’t known each other long enough to warrant real feelings. Have we?

  “I’m, uh…I’m glad you didn’t get out,” I tell him. He turns to me, but I don’t look back. “At the bus station.”

  “Me, too.”

  I can tell he’s smiling again. Mile by mile, I feel my anger disappear behind us.

  Eleven

  Shepherd

  We get into Houston after midnight. Lila chews her thumbnail in the passenger seat, which she’s been doing ever since we switched. I convinced her to let me drive when she nodded off and dragged a rumble strip. “Get some rest,” I’d insisted, but the closer we got to Texas, the more wired she became.

  “It’s like, all of a sudden I’m thinking...this really is stupid. What if she isn’t here?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. You can’t do anything until morning, either way.” I set the bags on the curb. “Except sleep. Which, once again, I think you really need.”

  “I will,” she says evasively, before pulling her eyes up the height of the hotel. She raises her eyebrows at me. “This place looks pricy—you sure you want to pay? I don’t mind splitting it.”

  “You got the hotel yesterday. It’s my turn.”

  “That was a motel. This is at least twice as much.”

  I push her money away again. The truth is, I feel guilty for this morning. I could have broken the news to her more gently. And a lot of my money came from pawning her mom’s stuff, so I kind of owe her.

  We check in and go up to our room. Lila falls into one of the plush queen beds and sighs, content.

  “You need the bathroom? I’m going to shower.” We left the motel in a rush this morning, so I’m positive I don’t smell great.

  Lila shakes her head, her answer muffled in the pillow. I slide her luggage to the corner, then head into the bathroom.

  Back at Tillie’s place, my showers were tepid and military-quick, courtesy of the failing water heater. For the first time in months, I stay in there long enough to fog the mirror.

  After I get out, I pat the countertop for my clothes, then curse: they’re still in my luggage.

  I look at the towel in my hands. Fancy hotel or not, somebody dropped the ball: it’s the only one in here—and way too small to cover me completely. My old clothes are piled on the floor, wet from where I stepped on them and too ripe for a re-wear, even for a few seconds.

  I crack the door and listen. The room is silent.

  “Lila?” I ask. No answer.

  With the towel wrapped around my waist as far as I can possibly stretch it, I tiptoe into the room and grab my luggage. Hefting it onto the bed is hard enough, but opening it one-handed proves impossible.

  I glance at the bed. Lila’s got her head turned towards me, but her eyes are shut. I let the towel fall and quickly unzip my bag.

  “Cold in here?” Lila mutters. I curse again and grab a handful of clothes, bolting back to the bathroom while she laughs.

  “Pretending to sleep,” I call, struggling into my sweatpants and a shirt. “Nice.”

  She’s still cracking up. I hear her voice move closer. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, you sound like it.”

  She leans against the doorframe, watching me comb my hair in the streaked mirror. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah, actually.” I look down at my sweats. “I’ll have to change back into jeans, first. You mind not peeping this time?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she laughs. “I’ll go—there’s a bar next door. I’ll get us some chicken tenders or something.”

  “You sure?” I reach into my jeans, pooled on the floor, for my wallet.

  “I got it. You covered breakfast.”

  I’m about to remind her that she covered lunch, making us even, but she’s already out the door.

  Lila

  The place near the hotel is smoky and dark, a total dive. I smell fried food, though, so I sit at the bar and grab a menu.

  “Hey.” Someone slides onto the seat beside mine. “What are you drinking?”

  I look at him. He’s not a bad-looking guy, but not my type at all, even if I weren’t caught up on somebody else. “I’m not,” I tell him, turning back to the menu, “but thanks.”

  “Told you, Rodney,” another voice says, as somebody else takes the stool on the other side. He seems to intentionally sit too close, bookending me. “She’s too pretty for your ugly ass.”

  “Oh, now, she didn’t say she wasn’t interested. The first guy leans in towards my face. I smell whiskey. “You sure I can’t buy you a drink? I bet my buddy John here five bucks I could get your number. You don’t want to make me a liar, do you?”

  My jaw clenches. I feel my p
atience hit zero. “That’s not my problem.”

  John, a scrawny guy with his nails bitten to the quick, slaps the bar top and laughs. It sounds like a mule braying.

  “These guys bothering you?” the bartender asks, stepping closer.

  “Yes, actually.”

  “I’m offering her a drink,” Rodney says. “That a crime?”

  The bartender looks at him a moment. His eyes slip to mine. “Do you want a drink?”

  “No.” I hand him the menu. “I’m just here to order some food. For me and my boyfriend.”

  John laughs again. Rodney snorts.

  The bartender tucks the menu under his arm and nods at the exit. “Come on, guys. Already told you to leave once, anyway. Don’t make me get Will and Ty.”

  They stare the bartender down. Finally, John gets up quietly, while Rodney rattles the stool and curses as he stands. “Guy can’t even offer a girl a fucking drink,” he mutters. “Hope you’re happy, ’cause you just lost a customer.”

  “I’ll live.” The bartender’s voice is flat. He jerks his head at the door.

  As soon as they’ve left, I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding, resting my head in my hand. “Thank you. Sorry I cost you a regular.”

  “They’ll be back tomorrow. Rodney’s a lot of talk.” He gets out a pad of paper and a pen. “You want your order to go?”

  I nod. “Two of the tender combos, please. Extra barbecue sauce.” I pause, then, as he’s turned away to punch it into the computer, add, “And some Thousand Island, if you’ve got any.” Shepherd drowned his fries in it when we got lunch today. I’m still kind of miffed about earlier, but I have to admit: it’s easier to be friends than enemies.

  While I wait, I decide a drink sounds good, after all. Every time I’m left with my own thoughts, I panic about tomorrow, and the very real possibility we won’t find Tillie. I haven’t decided what I’ll do if we don’t.

  The burn of the gin relaxes me, but reminds me of Donnie: after a fight, he’d bring me a gin and ginger in the Strawberry Shortcake glass, which had been in his kitchen for years without anyone knowing how it got there.

  “This was my favorite show as a kid,” I said, the first time I saw it. We’d just started dating. Things were still good.

  “Yeah?” He came up behind me and kissed my neck, gathering my hair in his hands. “Then it’s yours.”

  And just like that, it was My Glass. He’d even packed it for me when I came to get my stuff, after the breakup. Bubble wrap and everything.

  That’s why I stayed as long as I did: Donnie showed just enough kindness to make me overlook the bullshit. He wasn’t a good guy, but I thought he could be, someday.

  Of course, I finally realized I couldn’t change him. He didn’t want to change. Even his nice gestures and olive branches turned out to be tricks: he didn’t feel guilty for anything he did. He just wanted me to feel guilty about calling him on it.

  The drink is strong, another favor from the bartender, so I leave him a generous tip when the food comes out. The bag he hands me is stained with grease, the heat strangely soothing as I hug it to my chest and leave.

  Our hotel is like a beacon with so many windows lit, even this late at night. I think of Shepherd up in our room, waiting for me, and feel a happiness I probably shouldn’t. He likes me back, sure, but what good does that do me, if he doesn’t even want to see what comes of it?

  I’m halfway across the parking lot when I hear footsteps behind me. I hug the bag closer and pick up the pace, but the footsteps double.

  “Guess you’re headed back to your boyfriend, huh?” Rodney appears in front of me. When I try to sidestep, he moves, too.

  “Rod, come on, man.” John, several yards away, rubs his arm and looks around the parking lot. “Let’s go.”

  “Nah, not yet.” In the bar’s security lights, I notice he’s swaying, even drunker than I first suspected. “I said I was going to get this girl’s number, and that’s what’s gonna happen.”

  “Fine, I’ll give you my number.” I roll my eyes, even though I’m secretly terrified, and rattle off the digits, changing the final two numbers. “There—you won your bet. Now please move.”

  “Not so fast,” he clucks, reaching out and touching my hair. Suddenly, I remember Donnie doing it when Shepherd and I left town. At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it. I yelled at Shepherd for getting so angry, in fact.

  Now, I understand. From the outside, Donnie doing it looked no different than this guy doing it right now. Maybe it wasn’t.

  “Show me your phone,” he whispers. His face is so close to mine, I can see where he nicked himself shaving.

  I wish my voice could be loud again, the way it was in the safety of the bar. “I don’t have it on me.”

  “Ah, I see. Left it up in the room with your boyfriend?”

  My heart crashes against my sternum. I nod.

  “You know, it’s funny,” he says, but ironically, it’s now that his smirk fades, “I have a hard time believing that. Because, if you’ve got a boyfriend, why’d he let you go get the food? I know I wouldn’t let my girl head to a bar after midnight, all alone.” His hand trails down to the collar of my shirt. When his fingertips touch my bare skin, the bag suddenly feels scalding. “Not much of a gentleman, if you ask me.”

  “Hey,” John says, then shouts, “Hey, Rodney, watch—”

  Neither of us hears the rest of the sentence, because someone emerges from the darkness and grabs Rodney’s shoulders, throwing him to the pavement.

  I jump back as Shepherd lands on top of the guy. Every punch connects perfectly with his jaw, each crack against the bone blasting into the air.

  John comes running. “Shepherd!” I warn him, but he’s so engrossed in beating the ever-loving shit out of Rodney, he doesn’t notice. John throws a punch to Shepherd’s ear and sends him toppling.

  “Get off him!” My voice comes out strangled and shrill as I drop the bag, even though I know there’s no way I can stop them: it’s two on one. Shepherd, amazingly, holds his own, dodging more than he takes and delivering twice the accuracy.

  Distantly, some part of my brain realizes I should call the police instead of just standing here, helpless. I sprint into the bar. “There’s a fight,” I wheeze to the bouncer.

  He shouts back to the bartender, who yells after me for more details. I’m already following the bouncer, too worried about what we’ll find around the corner.

  Rodney is out cold, splayed across the pavement with his nose gushing blood. John hovers over him, but takes off when he sees the bouncer. He doesn’t get far.

  I look around. Shepherd is beside the dropped bag, panting. He licks his lip and spits into a patch of grass.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, when he notices me.

  I reel at his question. “Am I okay? What about you?” I drop to my knees and hold his face in my hands, turning it back and forth in the light. His lip is split, and there’s a bruise forming on his temple, his eye swollen.

  “I’m fine.” He puts his hand overtop one of mine. “I knew I should have gone with you.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Those guys are assholes.” I relax when I see the lights of a police car up the road. “But I am glad you got here when you did,” I add.

  “I am, too.” He touches my hair. I’m amazed at how different this same gesture can be, all depending on who does it.

  Shepherd

  Our food is almost cold after giving our statements and getting back to the room, but we’re too hungry to care.

  “Oh, man, I’m so glad you got Thousand Island.” I open the container. “It’s my favorite thing to dip fries in.”

  “I know. That’s why I got it.”

  This makes me smile, which makes her blush.

  “How do you feel?”

  “A little banged up, but good.” Truthfully, I feel awful. My lip stings every time I take a bite of anything, and there’s a headache creeping up the side of my face from one of th
e guys slamming it against the ground. When I reach for my soda, I notice a cut on my palm, flecked with chips of asphalt.

  “Here.” She passes me ibuprofen from her purse. “Just in case it hasn’t hit you yet.”

  I thank her. “You know, I was joking when I said you’d need some muscle on this trip.”

  “Hey, I could’ve taken them.”

  “Yeah, those guys got off easy, taking their beating from me, instead.” I flick a ketchup packet at her.

  She laughs and wipes her mouth on her shirt cuff, but I can tell we’re both shaken up over the whole thing—trying not to think about what could’ve happened if I wasn’t here.

  “Two a.m.,” she sighs, eyeing the clock. “I’m definitely not tired anymore.”

  “I feel like I’ve had about a gallon of coffee,” I agree. “We should get to bed, though.”

  She chews a fry too slowly, nodding. A piece of her hair falls in front of her face. I almost reach out to move it, like I did outside the bar, but stop myself.

  I’m not thinking clearly. All the stuff I said this morning is still true—now more than ever, when we’re both jacked up on adrenaline and feeling, at least on my end, closer than before.

  We brush our teeth and say goodnight. Lila tosses and turns for a while, but by three o’clock her breathing is slow and even, the blanket bunched up around her face.

  I roll onto my back and stare at the shifting shapes against the ceiling, my eyes playing tricks on me in the dark. My head feels better, but my heartbeat won’t slow down, every muscle twitching with pent-up energy.

  I don’t really notice my hand sliding into my sweatpants until it’s already happened, automatic: whenever I can’t sleep back home, I do what basically every guy does. When I realize what I’m doing, I stop.

  Then I remember her touching my face to check the damage, to make sure I was okay. I remember last night—the way she moaned my name when she orgasmed, the weight of her body on mine as we fell asleep together.