Beautiful Graves(20)
He hangs up on me without saying it back.
Your own family doesn’t love you. Let that sink in for a moment.
I bash my head against the steering wheel softly. The thumps are rhythmic. Thud. Thud. Thud. I do that for about ten minutes before using the remainder of my energy to rev up the engine and start driving. I put “Unfinished Symphony,” by Massive Attack, on Bluetooth. The streets are littered with people. Laughing and kissing and hugging and living. I drive without direction or purpose. I drive because I know what’s waiting for me at home. Nora and Colt, cuddled together on the couch like a human yin and yang, watching a movie, cooing at each other. I drive until the red line on my dash informs me I’d better get my ass to a gas station before my car dies.
I stop at the nearest station and pump gas. I glance at my watch. It’s close to two in the morning. I haven’t eaten all day. I need something sweet and comforting. With the gas pump still inside the tank, I amble into the 7-Eleven and head straight to the candy aisle. A tall dark-haired man is standing on the other side of it. Our bodies are positioned exactly as Joe and I were in that pharmacy, six years ago. My heart skips a beat. For a moment, I’m tempted to sidestep, see if it’s Joe. But then Nora’s words reverberate in my head. It’s not him. It can’t be him. I’ll never see him again. It’s time to move on.
After grabbing a bag of Skittles, a pack of Oreos, and a Big Gulp blueberry slushie, I make my way to the register. I nod at the cashier.
“That it?” The guy pops his gum in my face.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, man, you ran out of sandwiches.” I hear a male voice coming from one of the beverage fridges, and I know it belongs to the tall dark-haired guy. There’s no one else here.
“Shit happens, bro.” Cashier Guy snaps his gum again as he hands me a plastic bag and my change. “There’s some frozen meals if you’re desperate. Or you can eat chips like the rest of the modern world.”
“Shit happens? That’s your answer? And I don’t want junk, I want a fucking sandwich.” When the guy materializes from behind the aisles, my heart does a one-eighty. It’s Dom. The nurse guy who saved Loki. He is wearing his green scrubs. He also looks like shit. And by shit, I mean, still stunning, but like he hasn’t slept in months. His hair curls messily around his ears and forehead, and his eyes are bloodshot, the skin around them dark and sunken.
“Dom?” I ask.
He stops, cocks his head, until the penny drops. “Oh. Lynne. Hey.”
I cringe at the name he gave me. Now’s not the time to tell him I despise the nickname, though.
We stand in front of each other, me with my plastic bag dangling from my fingertips, him with his soul bleeding all over the floor between us.
“Everything all right?” I peer into his face.
“Yeah, I’m . . .” He looks around us, pushing his fingers through rich strands of chestnut locks. “I will be all right. I’m having a night. That’s all.”
“What happened?”
I’m aware that we have an audience in the form of Cashier Guy, but I don’t care. Dom looks off.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” He grabs a bag of chips, then slams it on the checkout counter. “Normal life stuff. Here. I’m getting fucking chips. Happy?” he asks the cashier.
“No, tell me.” I stay rooted in place. I’m not going to be an asshole twice tonight. I let Dad down. I’m not failing this guy too. Especially after the solid he did for me.
Not when I was thinking earlier how we all have a Virginia Woolf inside us. Someone who wants to fill their pockets with rocks and disappear into a lake.
Dom gives me a once-over. His smile hangs on his face like a half moon. Sad and incomplete. “I lost a patient today. She was nine.” The last word is barely audible as Dom’s voice breaks. I feel my heart ballooning to a monstrous size, then popping right there in my chest. I grab his hand and pull him from the cashier and from the pitiful bag of chips and from the convenience store. Far away from this place, with the static lights and stained linoleum floor.
“Come with me.”
“Who’s the axe murderer now?” he asks tiredly, but he doesn’t resist. For all his strength and muscles, his hand is limp and cold in mine. He follows me.
“I’m going to feed you something that’s not chips, and then I want you to tell me everything about your shift.” I stop for a beat, then add, “And then I am going to kill you. Don’t worry, I’ll dump your body somewhere exotic.”
He laughs weakly, because he has to, but he still laughs, which is what I was aiming for.
I shove him into my Chevy. I untuck the gas pump and start driving. We split a sleeve of Oreos, and I engage him in light small talk. Where did he go to college? (Northeastern for undergrad, Boston College for his nursing degree.) What’s his favorite color? (Purple.) If he could date one celebrity, who would it be? (Probably Kendall Jenner, though he reserves the right to switch to Zendaya.)
He answers my questions, subdued. I head to Wendy’s, where I buy him a Baconator burger with a side of fries, a Frosty, and chili. Okay, the chili is actually so I can have the crackers that come with it. I park in the joint’s parking lot and take the food out, then lean against the hood of my car. Dom joins me. I pass him his food.
“How long had she been there?” I ask.