I'm Thinking of Ending Things(34)

So that’s probably what I’ll say: It’s not you, it’s me. It’s my issue. I’m the one with the problem. I’m putting you in an unfair position. You’re a good person. I need to work through some things. You need to move on. We tried, we did. And you never know what’ll happen in the future.

“Looks like you’re done,” says Jake.

I realize I’ve put my lemonade in the cup holder. It’s melting. I am done. Done.

“I’m cold. It’s interesting to watch things melt and feel cold.”

“That was a bit of a wasted stop.” He looks at me. “Sorry.”

“At least I can say I’ve been to a Dairy Queen in the middle of nowhere in a snowstorm. That’s something I’ll never do again.”

“We should get rid of these cups. They’ll melt and the cup holders will get sticky.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I think I know where we can go.”

“You mean to throw them out?”

“If we keep going, up ahead, there’s a road on the left. Down that road a bit is a school, a high school. We can get rid of the cups there.”

Is it really that important to get rid of these cups? Why would we stop just to do that?

“It’s not far, is it?” I ask. “The snow’s not gonna get any better. I’d really like to get home.”

“Not too far, I don’t think. I just don’t want to throw the cups out the window. It’ll give you a chance to see a bit more of this area.”

I’m not sure if he’s joking about “seeing” more of this area. I look out the window. It’s just a mix of blowing snow and darkness.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

Several more minutes down the road, we come to the left turn. Jake takes it. If I thought the original road was a back road, this one redefines the concept of back road. It’s not wide enough for two cars. It’s heavily treed, a forest.

“Down here,” says Jake. “I remember this now.”

“You didn’t go to this school, though, did you? It’s far from your house.”

“I was never a student here. But I’ve driven down here before.”

The road is narrow and snakes back and forth. I can see only what the headlights allow. The trees have given way to fields. The visibility is still almost zero. I put the back of my hand on my window. The glass is cold.

“How far along is it, exactly?”

“I don’t think much farther. I can’t remember.”

I’m wondering why we are doing this. Why don’t we just leave the drinks to melt? I would rather get home and clean up myself than spend however long driving deeper into these fields. Nothing makes sense. I want this to end.

“I bet it’s nice during the day,” I say. “Peaceful.” Trying to be positive.

“Yeah, definitely remote.”

“How’s the road?”

“Messy, slick; I’m going slow. It hasn’t been plowed yet. It shouldn’t be much farther. Sorry, I thought it was closer.”

I’m starting to feel anxious. Not really. A bit. It’s been a long night. The drive there, the walk around the farm, meeting his parents. His mom. What his dad said. His brother. And thinking about ending things this entire time. Everything. And now this detour.

“Look,” he says, “I knew it. Up there. I knew it. You see? That’s it.”

A few hundred yards ahead, on the right, is a large building. I can’t make out much beyond that.

Finally. After this, maybe we can get home.

HE WAS RIGHT IN THE end; I’m glad to see this school. It’s massive. There must be two thousand students who attend every day. It’s one of those big, old, rural high schools. I have no idea, obviously, what the student body is, but it’s got to be huge. And down such a long, narrow road.

“You didn’t think it would look like this, did you?” he says.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Not this.

“What’s a school doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“There’ll be somewhere to get rid of these cups.” Jake slows the car as we pull up in front and drive by.

“There,” I say. “Right there.”

There’s a bike rack with a single-gear bike locked up and a green garbage bin up in front of a bank of windows.

“Precisely,” he says. “?’Kay, I’ll be right back.”

He grabs both cups in one hand, using his thumb and index finger as pincers. He knees open his door, gets out, and swings it shut with a loud thud. He leaves the car running.

I watch Jake walk past the bike rack toward the garbage can. That pigeon-toed walk, stooped shoulders, head bent. If I saw him for the first time right now, I’d assume his hunch was because of the cold, the snow. But that’s just him. I know his walk, his posture. I recognize it. It’s a lope, indelicately long, slow strides. Put him and a few others on treadmills and show me their legs and feet. I could pick him out of a police lineup based only on his walk.

I look through the windshield at the wipers. They make this motorized friction sound. They’re too tight on the glass. Jake’s holding the cups in one hand. He has the lid of the garbage can in his other hand. He’s looking into the bin. Come on, hurry up, throw them out.