Girl Out of Water(77)

She half frowns, the wrinkles around her lips exaggerating, and shakes her head. “Sorry, I’ve got nothing.”

“Right,” I say. I can’t believe I did this. I promised myself I wouldn’t get my hopes up, but then tricked myself into believing for even a few moments I could have an active part in our relationship. “Never mind. Thanks for the burgers.”

She nods. “I’ll get you guys some refills on those Cokes.”

As she walks away, I turn to Lincoln. “I’m not hungry. I’ll meet you out by the car.”

Before he has a chance to respond, I slip off of the stool and leave this place I should have never come to.

? ? ?

I’m leaning against the car, arms crossed, when Lincoln comes outside. He’s carrying a white paper bag, probably with our food in it, because he’s the type of guy who would bring me my food even after I stormed out of a restaurant. I kick the gravel with my foot.

“Anise?”

I snap my head up. He looks startled. My expression must show the fury boiling inside me.

“Let’s go.”

“Look, I’m sorry I made you ask, but—”

“You didn’t make me do anything. I was the one who asked to come here. It’s my fault we wasted time on her. Now let’s go.”

“It’s not your fault—”

I throw up my hands. “Fine! Then it’s your fault! You dragged me inside, you got my fucking hopes up, you made me ask that waitress about my mom, and now you get to watch me deal with it. It’s fine. I just want to go home.”

But part of me doesn’t want to go home—doesn’t want to go to yet another place my mom might be. It’s exhausting tiptoeing around my life, both hopeful and terrified she could appear at any moment.

Lincoln stares at me, so I turn and yank open the car door. I slide inside and slam the door shut behind me. After a minute, Lincoln joins me in the car, wordlessly handing over the food. The greasy smell makes my stomach churn, so I stuff the bag by my feet and cover it with my sweatshirt.

Lincoln starts the car, and we pull out of the gravel lot. I sink into the seat, curl up my legs, and lean my head against the door. Anger pulses through me.

I hate her. I hate her for making me hate her.

I hate that she probably doesn’t care that I hate her.

“Do you want some music?” Lincoln asks after we drive in silence for a few miles.

I shrug my shoulders and mumble, “Sure.”

“Do you mind?” he asks.

“Right,” I say. Adjusting the stereo is difficult when your only hand is busy driving the car. I glance over at him. Moonlight bathes his dark skin. His jaw is tense. It’s an unfamiliar sight. He looks tired, grim. Like a different person entirely. I know I should apologize, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I lean forward and flip on the stereo, flicking through the songs and watching Lincoln’s expression as I do. At the sound of Springsteen’s “Jungleland,” his face softens the slightest bit, so I leave the CD there and lean back in my seat.

? ? ?

Stars speckle the dark sky. Overarching lampposts light the highway. The roads by home look different driving in from the west. My limited traveling has only ever taken me north and south, never out of or into California. We pass a sign that reads “Santa Cruz 9 miles,” and I grip my seat belt. Home. In minutes I’ll be home.

Surf Break begins tomorrow. I’ll spend all day on the beach, with Tess and everyone else. Unless they’re mad at me. God, please don’t let them be mad at me.

As we get off the highway, I barely recognize the roads in the darkness, like a world I lived in many years ago. And yet I turn off the GPS and give Lincoln directions by memory. I still owe him an apology, but we’ve settled into a subdued silence.

We pass my school. A few lights are on, probably for security. In less than two weeks I’ll be back in class for my senior year. I’ve had the same classmates for twelve years; I know every face I’ll see on that first Monday back, every name, every personality.

And then a year after that, they’ll all be gone. Off to San Francisco, or Hawaii, or New York, or wherever else people go to college when they’re too dense to realize what they already have is so great.

Slowly we pull down my street. It’s long and has a slight curve along the coastline. As I text Dad to tell him we made it here safely, we pass Tess’s house, and then further on we pass Eric’s. His bedroom light is on. I wonder if he’s looking out the window, watching cars pass, wondering which one I’m in. Even Tess doesn’t know specifics about my arrival time, so maybe he’s been there all day, watching, waiting for me. Or, maybe he doesn’t care at all. Maybe he’s night surfing with someone else. In an alternate universe, he’d be next to me right now, and we’d be running out to the water together. If Lincoln and Eric had both lived in Santa Cruz, who would I have ended up with? If a nature-nerd skater with a perfect dimple had approached me at home, would I have even noticed him?

As we near my house, a different anxiety presses in. Will there be an unfamiliar car in the driveway? Some run-down piece of crap with a thousand bumper stickers or a shiny BMW, borrowed from my mom’s latest friend?

I tell Lincoln, “Up on the right. Green paint. Well, greenish. Faded green paint.”

He inches down the road and then asks, “This it?”