by L. E. Rico
Okay. Enough already, Hennessy!
I sniff and use the sheet to dry the tears on my cheeks. The exhaustion is making me emotional, and if I don’t get some sleep soon, no way will I be up for the drive to Boston. And not going is not an option. I’m a big girl now, and it’s time I lived with the consequences of the decisions I’ve made. Time to start over again. Time to put aside my fantasies about an idyllic life surrounded by family and friends.
And love.
Definitely time.
Chapter Forty
Bryan
Truittism No.20: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step and multiple people to help you take it.
“And it shimmies between forty-five and fifty,” Walker says, leaning into the driver’s side window of her beat-up old jeep. “So you’ll need to either slow down or speed up. And, whatever you do, don’t slam on the brakes. They’ll lock up on you. Just downshift instead.”
I look at her from inside the car and wonder, for the tenth time in as many minutes, if I wouldn’t just be better off taking my rented sedan on this road trip. This is starting to feel like an episode of Ice Road Truckers.
“That little tin can won’t make it a half hour in the snow,” she informs me, as if reading my thoughts. “If the route were clear—okay, fine. But it could get hairy out there. Just stick to the main highway and go slow. If it gets really bad, pull off at a rest stop or an exit. Not on the side of the road—not even with your blinkers on. You’ll get covered up by snow quick, and the other cars might plow into you…”
“Are you trying to scare the crap out of me?” I ask her. “What’s next? Gonna warn me about Big Foot? How about rogue moose that dart out into the middle of the road?”
Walker just shakes her head and raises her palms, indicating she’s done with me.
Thank. God.
“I really appreciate it,” I offer as an olive branch. “I just…I’m just afraid to wait anymore. I need to get there by morning.”
“Okay, here you go,” Jameson says, leaning in the other window. She passes me a thermos of coffee and a bag of sandwiches and snacks. “Oh, and this is from Bailey,” she adds, passing me a CD. “Some travel tunes, she said.”
“All right, I’m off, then.”
“Call us from the road,” Jameson says.
“I can’t. It’ll be the middle of the night, and I’m not going to wake the whole house.”
“I’ll be up,” Walker says quietly from next to me. “Shoot me a text every hour and let me know where you are. I’ll keep an eye on the weather along your route and let you know if there’s someplace you should detour. Okay?”
It’s the closest thing to kindness that she’s ever offered me.
“Yeah, okay,” I agree. “Bye and thanks.” I raise the windows before they can say anything else.
It’s been a few years since I’ve driven a stick shift, and I focus on the clutch-to-gas ratio. Finally, I lurch out of the driveway with a squeal that sends a string of obscenities from Walker’s mouth. I smile and wave as I pull past them and down the road.
The entrance to the highway is on the other side of Mayhem, so I make the short trip through town. As I wait at the one and only stoplight, a loud rap on the passenger window makes my heart jump up into my throat. When I look over, Janet Lahti is gesturing for me to roll down the window. I do.
“Here,” she says, hoisting a plastic bag through the window and onto the passenger’s seat. “There’s a pie for you to bring to Hennessy. Don’t eat it on the way! I put some muffins and cookies in there for you to munch on.”
“Janet, how did you know I was going to see Hennessy?” I ask incredulously. “And how on earth did you know I’d be driving by this corner at”—I glance at the clock on the dash—“at twelve fifteen in the morning?”
She gives me the witchiest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Bryan, there are some answers you’re better off not knowing,” she informs me. “Now, just one more thing…”
Oh, great. Can’t wait to hear this one.
“Angels.”
“Angels?”
“Yes, angels.”
“What about them?”
“They’re all around you. So, don’t worry. If you get stuck, one of them will come to your rescue. Don’t be scared of the angels.”
Holy. Crap. This woman’s even nuttier than I originally thought.
“Okay, then… Gotta go…”
She’s still smiling that creepy smile and waving her spooky wave at me as I watch her disappear in the rearview mirror.
…
Under the best of conditions, the drive from Mayhem to the Minneapolis/St. Paul area should take about three hours. I’ve done it a few times already, flying into the airport, renting a car and driving north to the Iron Range. But this is not the best of conditions. Not by a long shot. Visibility is less than a mile as I crawl down 169-S along Mille Lacs Lake.
My knuckles are sore from gripping the steering wheel, and my eyes tired from the constant back and forth scanning of the road in front of me. What I can see of it, anyway, as the snow blows and drifts across the beam of my headlights. And that’s just the stuff that’s on the ground. What’s falling from the sky—actually, tumbling from the sky would be more accurate—is smacking the windshield and holding tight until the wipers fling it off. Unfortunately, like the rest of Walker’s loaner vehicle, they only work intermittently, forcing me to roll down the window and use my bare hand to try and clear the glass in front of me.
I can’t believe it’s nearly Easter and I’m here trying to drive through freaking snowmageddon. According to Walker’s latest text, I should be out of this mess in about forty-five miles. But that’s a long haul with poor visibility and a road that’s icing thicker and slicker with every passing second.
Okay. Eye on the prize, Bryan. Eye on the prize.
I’m going to get to St. Paul safe and sound. Right? Right. I reach over and pull out a mammoth chocolate chip cookie from the bakery bag Janet left for me, and cram it into my mouth. Its soft, buttery goodness sends a delightful burst of sugar fuel into my bloodstream. I pop the CD Bailey gave me into the player and brace myself for an onslaught of Katy Perry and Justin Bieber. I’m stunned when the interior of the car is filled with Peter Gabriel.
“Love, I get so lost, sometimes…”
Wait. What?
“Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart. When I want to run away I drive off in my car. But whichever way I go I come back to the place you are…”
How could this girl—a child, really—have chosen the perfect song for this insane quest? How does she even know this song? I was just a kid when it came out. She wasn’t even born!
“All my instincts, they return. And the grand facade, so soon will burn. Without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the inside.”
I flash on that stupid movie with John Cusack holding his boom box outside of Ione Skye’s window, serenading her like some twentieth-century minstrel. It was a terrible movie, but the scene is iconic. And isn’t it exactly what I’m about to do? Stand outside of Hennessy’s window with my heart in my hands, hoping she’ll be moved by the same feelings that are shredding my insides to pieces right now?
“In your eyes, the light the heat. In your eyes, I am complete…”
“Oh my God,” I mutter. “What the hell am I doing?”
I slap my palm on the steering wheel. Big mistake. It’s so loose that the slight motion causes the old Jeep to swerve. Which causes the tires to catch a particularly nasty patch of black ice. Which causes me to slam on the brakes. Which I wasn’t supposed to do. Next thing I know, I’m gliding across three lanes—thankfully empty at this hour in this weather—and executing a slow-motion 180 off the highway and into a snow bank.
By the time the car comes to a complete stop, I’m breathing heavy and covered from head to toe in a cold sweat. The thermos and snacks are now scattered on the floor of the passenger side.
“Jesus…” I murmur on an exhalation, resting my head on my hands, which are still glued to the wheel.
“Hey! Hey, you all right?”
For the second time tonight, I jump at the sound of someone rapping on my window, looking up to find a burly guy with a Twins baseball cap peering in at me through the frosted glass. I manage to get the window rolled down.
“Uh…yeah. I think so…”
“Man, I saw you cross the highway. You was lucky there weren’t nobody else out here! What you doing out in this mess, brother?”
“A girl.”
I don’t know what makes me say it, but it’s the only answer I have.
He doesn’t so much as blink.
“Ah, well, then. Let’s get you on your way. I’m Woody,” he informs me.
“Bryan.”
“’Kay, Bryan, try easing yourself out of the snow bank…”
He spends the next few minutes guiding me back and forth, inch by inch, until I’ve extricated the jeep and stuffed my heart back down into my chest, where it belongs.
“Right then, good job, Bryan. You headed to the Twin Cities?”
I nod dumbly.
“I’m going that way, too. Why don’t you pull up behind my rig and follow behind me the rest of the way. We’ll take it nice and slow, ’kay?”
“Yeah… Yeah, thanks, Woody, that’d be great. Here…”
I pull the bag of muffins from next to me and hand it to him through the window. A huge grin fills his face, and I see he’s missing more than a few teeth.
“Little Slice of Heaven—I love that place!”
He walks down the shoulder to where he’s parked and hops back up into the cab of his truck. In a few seconds, I’ve recovered enough of my courage to move forward slowly and align myself with his rear wheels. It’s not until we both pull out and continue southward that I see the logo on the back of his truck. I feel my breath catch in my throat. Again.
It’s a pair of wings over the words:
Iron Angels Construction, Duluth, MN.
And, just like that, I’m not worried about the time I’m making or what I’ll say when I get there. Because now I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, thanks to the angels.
Chapter Forty-One
Hennessy
I spend most of the night tossing and turning, fighting my way through one bizarre nightmare after another. By the time the sun starts to peek through the window, I’m actually relieved to have an excuse to get out of bed. I flip on the Weather Channel to find that the fast-moving storm traveled clear across Minnesota and into Wisconsin overnight, so there’s no reason my relocation can’t happen today.
No excuses, Hennessy.
I roll out of the frameless bed and drag myself to my feet, skirting around the cardboard mountains as I make my way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later I emerge feeling considerably more human with freshly-brushed teeth and washed hair. A glance at the clock on the stove tells me I have about two hours to kill before the truck arrives, one hour before I can find a cup of coffee anyplace, and maybe half hour before my sisters renew their phone campaign to get me to stay.
I open the fridge door and peer in, not sure what it is that I’m expecting there. It looks exactly the same as it did last night when I wanted a snack. A few olives in a jar, the dregs of a ketchup bottle, and a sad little slice of American cheese. I’m considering how to integrate the three items into some semblance of breakfast when I hear it.
I turned off the television in the bedroom—I’m certain of it. The screen on my phone is dark, so the sound’s not coming from there. I lean closer to the wall I share with my neighbor, wondering if she’s playing loud music—which would be unusual for her, especially at this hour of the morning. But it’s not coming from there, either.
Is that…Peter Gabriel?
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I walk to the far end of the apartment and look out the window.
Oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly why I do it. That movie. That silly movie with John Cusack and the boom box. But what is it that I think I’m going to find out there on the sidewalk three floors down? Some guy—who may or may not be Bryan—playing a song in an attempt to win my heart?
Hah! Yeah, like that Hallmark Channel nonsense ever happens in real life!
Still, I look. No guy. And still, the music is coming from somewhere nearby. I close my eyes and listen, trying to triangulate where it’s coming from. It’s not loud enough to be inside the apartment. It’s more like someone’s standing in the hallway…
I practically knock over a boxful of books in my rush to get to the front door. I know within five feet that I’ve got it right this time, and when I look through the peephole, I gasp at what I see.
Standing there, looking bedraggled and exhausted, is Bryan Truitt. He’s holding his iPhone up to the door, and I can just make out the tiny image of Peter Gabriel’s album So on the screen. Bryan doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ring. He just stands there, phone up, waiting for me to hear him and open the door.
I do.
“In your eyes, I see the doorway to a thousand churches…” Peter Gabriel sings just loud enough so as not to bother my neighbors.
“That’s my favorite line,” he says. “The doorway to a thousand churches line…”
“Yeah, that is a pretty amazing image,” I agree, playing along as he pretends this is a perfectly natural situation.
“I get it.”
“What?” I ask, neither of us budging.
“I get what he’s saying. Because I see that when I look into your eyes.”
I stare at him, my breath suddenly caught in my throat.
“You…you do?” I ask, sounding tentative.
He nods.
“I do. And that’s why I’m here.”
“It is?”
Jeez, could I be any lamer?
He nods again.
“Can I come in?”
“I’m moving to Boston,” I blurt. “In like two hours.”
“Please?”
I step back and hold the door open so he can pass me. I notice he’s got a plastic shopping bag in his other hand.
“Janet,” he says, following my gaze. “She sent me with a pie. I’ve got a thermos of coffee in here from Jameson, too.”
For the first time, I realize I’m dressed in only a terrycloth robe with my hair swept up in a towel turban. No clothes. No makeup. Not even a pair of slippers.
“Uh…that sounds great. Let me go put something on—”
“No,” he says sharply. The surprise must register on my face because he’s quick to jump in again. “I don’t want to let you out of my sight. Not for a second. I can’t.”
“Bryan…”
He sets the bag and his phone down on the breakfast bar and wraps his big, strong hands around my forearms.
“No, Hennessy. I let you go once, and I won’t do it again. Not ever.”
“What are you talking about?” I whisper, looking up into his dark eyes. There’s something there that I haven’t seen before. They’re not amused or determined or angry. What I see in Bryan Truitt’s gaze, and on his face, is sheer emotion—ragged and raw. It’s so powerful that I couldn’t look away from him even if I wanted to. And I don’t.
“I love you,” he says on an exhalation, as if it’s a living, breathing thing that’s been inside of him all this time. “I loved you the moment I got stuck in that stupid pile of snow. I went there expecting to get the contract signed and get back on that plane home. But then I saw you…and I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t ever leave that town again without you.”
“That’s—that’s insane,” my brain replies, even as my heart flutters ecstatically.
And still, Peter Gabriel sings. He must have the song set to repeat.
Bryan shakes his head. “I should’ve made you listen to me. I should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt—trusted that you’d understand what happened after you heard the whole story. But I
was afraid you wouldn’t…that you couldn’t love me after that. So I ran away.”
“But you can only outrun your past for so long,” I say, echoing the words that Janet spoke to him when she handed him the sweet potato pie.
“Exactly,” he nods.
I sigh and give him a bittersweet smile.
“Bryan, I’m leaving for Boston. I’ve taken a job there.”
“Then I’m moving to Boston,” he says firmly.
I pull my arms out of his grasp and gape at him incredulously.
“What? Are you insane? Your home is in Los Angeles.”
“No.” The single word comes out as a sharp staccato. “No. Hennessy, my home is wherever you are. I will follow you wherever you go because I don’t want to live without you for a single second longer.”
I simply cannot process what I’m hearing—this declaration of undying love from a man who’s known me for less than three months. Nor can I process what I’m feeling—the swell of joy that’s radiating up from my toes, through my body, and practically shooting out of the top of my head.
He loves me! He wants to be with me! He’s as certifiably nuts as I am!
“You went to Mayhem before you came here?” I ask, wrenching my thoughts back onto firmer ground.
He looks confused for a second.
“The thermos and the pie,” I explain, gesturing to the bag.
“Yeah. I went there last night looking for you. Your sisters told me what was going on.”
“My sisters?” I sputter. “But they hate you!”
A sheepish smile spreads across his face.
“Not so much… Walker loaned me her jeep, Bailey made me a mix tape for the road, and Jameson packed me snacks. They told me to bring you home. But…”
“But what?” I ask, a little eagerly.
“But like I said, my home is wherever you are. So if you want to stay here, it’s here. If you want to go to Boston, it’s Boston. If you want to come back with me to the west coast, we can do that, too.”
“And if I want to go back to Mayhem…?”
My question comes out as a whisper.
Bryan closes the distance between us again, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me to his chest.