Dreams of 18(26)

It’s like he threw me air and I caught it, breathing again.

Swallowing, I peek at his harsh profile. “Thanks.”

His reply is snapping his seat belt around himself, which reminds me that I have to do it too. Before he can get even more pissed, I fasten the seat belt around me.

And then we’re off.

To parts unknown.

“Where are we going?” I ask hesitantly, watching the play of lights on his broad frame as we pass by restaurants and stores and various buildings in downtown.

Silence.

“I’m assuming it’s somewhere to talk?”

Nothing.

I squeeze my hobo with my legs. “Actually, I have a car. Uh, it was parked right there, a little bit farther. If you’d told me where we were going, I could’ve just followed you.”

I throw him another glance to check if he’s listening. But I can see no outward signs of that. I might as well be not here.

Inside his truck.

I’m inside his truck.

Whoa.

I’ve imagined it so many, many times before. I always thought it would be a dream unfulfilled, like all my other dreams when it comes to him.

“It’s spacious,” I murmur, looking at the roof, the dashboard, his old-fashioned CD player.

Then I notice the smell.

I sniff.

It kinda smells… boozy. Not too much but slightly. There’s a hint of it.

Now that I’m thinking about it, Mr. Edwards smells that way too. Musky and tangy like liquor.

I clear my throat and continue to dispel the awkward silence. “The truck, I mean. It’s spacious. So it’s not like I don’t like it. But I guess, if I had my own vehicle, I could just drive myself back. You know, when we’re done talking. But now, you’ll have to drop me off and…”

At this, I get several ticks on his jaw.

“But it’s okay. I can just call a cab.” Then, “You guys have cabs here, right? I didn’t see a single one on my way over.”

Still nothing.

“Of course there are cabs here.” I chuckle nervously. “Stupid question. But if you could just give me like, a number? Like, where I can call, that’d be great. Oh!” I throw my hands in the air. “I can Uber. You guys definitely have Uber, right?”

Oh God, this is not helping. I’m getting more and more nervous. Why won’t he say anything?

Just say something, anything.

I don’t like this silence-before-the-storm type situation. I swear I’m about to hyperventilate.

“Mr. –”

“How’d you know I was here?”

Fucking finally.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and answer, “Uh, I saw it on Facebook.”

“Facebook.”

“Yes. I saw that you were living here.”

I know how that might sound. That I was stalking him or something. But I don’t wanna lie to him.

“How’d you see it?” he asks.

“Brian… He, uh, posted about it.”

At the mention of his son, his fingers tighten on the wheel. In addition to that, his nostrils flare and I have absolutely no idea what to make of it.

“So what, you thought you could drop by to say hi?”

I squirm in my seat. “Not hi, exactly. I told you I came –”

“Why aren’t you in college?” he grits out, staring at the road.

Whoa, okay.

The correct answer is, I’m not in college because I lost my shit last summer and spent some time in a psych ward. And now, going to a crowded place like college terrifies me so I’m taking it easy.

That’s the correct answer.

But the other correct answer is, I’m fine now. I’m handling things. It’s all in the past. So what’s the point of telling him?

I feel the leather of my hobo with my legs as I tell him, “Because it’s summer vacation. College is usually out.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

I’m lying to him and I wanna throw up. But again, what’s the point of telling him when it’s all done and over with?

He accepts my answer by clenching his jaw and white-knuckling the wheel.

A few seconds pass until he asks another question. “Your parents know you’re vacationing here?”

No.

They think I’m at a yoga retreat with the girls for my anxiety issues; they helped with the convincing. Nelson recommended it a long time ago and last week, I fake-agreed to go.

“Yes,” I lie the second time in the space of a minute, and the bile is so high up my throat that I feel it on the tip of my tongue.

“Is that right?”

I can see why this is a little harder to believe for him but I keep at it. “Yes. That’s right.”

“Your parents know that their innocent little schoolgirl daughter’s here. With the alleged sexual predator. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

He’s quoting that article from the Cherryville Chronicle and as soon as he’s said it, the tic in his jaw doesn’t stop.

My heart follows its lead and begins to tic as well, slowly gaining speed.

“First of all, I’m not a schoolgirl. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions,” I tell him fiercely. “Second of all, my parents don’t care. My mom’s busy with her new affair. And my dad’s out of the country for the rest of the month.”