I'm Thinking of Ending Things(29)

She hands me a piece of paper. It’s been folded a few times. It’s small enough to fit into a pocket.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I’ve forgotten now, of course, how long exactly, but it’s been in the works for quite some time.”

I start to unfold it. She raises her hand. “No, no. Don’t open it here! You’re not ready yet!”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a surprise. For you. Open it when you arrive.”

“When I arrive where?”

She doesn’t answer, just keeps smiling. Then she says, “It’s a painting.”

“Thank you. Is it one of yours?”

“Jake and I used to draw and paint together when he was younger, for hours at a time. He loved art.”

Did they do that in the dank basement? I wonder.

“We have a studio. It’s quiet. It was our favorite room in the house.”

“Was?”

“Is. Was. Oh, I don’t know, you’d have to ask Jake.”

Her eyes have welled up and I’m worried she’s going to outright cry.

“Thank you for the gift,” I say. “That’s so kind of you. We’ll both appreciate it, I’m sure. Thanks.”

“It’s for you. Only for you. It’s a portrait,” she says. “Of Jake.”

WE HAVEN’T REALLY TALKED ABOUT the night. We haven’t discussed his parents. I thought it would be the first thing we’d do when we got back in the car, rehash the evening. I want to ask about his mom, the basement, tell him about the conversation with his dad in Jake’s bedroom, the way his mom hugged me, the gift she gave me. There’s so much I want to ask. But we’ve been in this car for a while now. How long? I’m not sure. And now I’m losing steam. I’m starting to fade. Should I just wait and talk about it all tomorrow when I have more energy?

I’m glad we didn’t stay the night. I’m relieved. Would Jake and I have shared that tiny single bed? I didn’t dislike his parents. It’s just that it was weird and I’m tired and want to be in my own bed tonight. I want to be alone.

I can’t imagine making small talk with his parents first thing in the morning. Too much to bear. The house was cold, too, and dark. It felt warm when we first got inside, but the longer we were there, the more I noticed the drafts. I wouldn’t have slept much.

“Teardrops are aerodynamic,” Jake says. “All cars should be shaped like teardrops.”

“What?” It comes out of nowhere, and I’m still thinking about the evening, everything that happened. Jake was quiet most of the night. I still don’t know why. Everyone gets a little antsy around family, and it was the first time I’d met them. But still. He was definitely less talkative, less present.

I need to sleep. Two or three nights of long, uninterrupted sleep to catch up. No spinning thoughts, no bad dreams, no phone calls, no interruptions, no nightmares. I’ve been sleeping terribly for weeks. Maybe longer.

“It’s funny to see some of these cars that are still being designed and marketed as fuel-efficient. Look how boxy that one is.” Jake points out the window to my right, but in the dark it’s hard to see anything.

“I don’t mind uniqueness,” I say. “Even things that are very unique. I like things that are different.”

“By definition, nothing can be very unique. It’s either unique or it isn’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I’m too tired for this.

“And cars shouldn’t be unique. That driver probably complains about global warming and climate change and yet wants a ‘unique’ car. Every car should be shaped like a teardrop. That would show people we’re serious about fuel efficiency.”

He’s off on a Jake rant. I don’t really care about fuel efficiency, right now or even at the best of times. All I want to do is talk about what just happened at his parents’ house and get home so I can get some sleep.

“WHO WAS THAT GIRL IN the photo on your shelf?”

“What photo? What girl?”

“The girl with blond hair standing in a field or at the edge of a field. The one in your room.”

“Steph, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. She’s pretty.”

“She’s attractive. I never really saw her as beautiful or anything.”

She’s very pretty. “Did you date her, or is she a friend?”

“Was a friend. We dated for a bit. Just after high school, for a bit after.”

“Was she also in biochemistry?”

“No, music. She was a musician.”

“What kind?”

“She played a lot of instruments. Taught. She was the first one to introduce me to some of the old stuff. You know, classics, country, Dolly Parton, stuff like that. There were narratives in those songs.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“Not really. It didn’t work out.”

He’s not looking at me but straight ahead at the road. He’s biting his thumbnail. If this were a different relationship, at a different time, maybe I would keep at him. Nag him more. Insist. But I know where we’re headed now, so there’s no point.

“Who was the guy in the background?”