Everything I Left Unsaid(10)

The person he really didn’t trust was himself.

What would he do to someone as innocent as Layla? How would the blood and dirt on his hands ruin her?

But Layla didn’t know anything about him. The accident. His past. His money.

She knew nothing. And her voice had still broken with interest and desire.

That’s what he couldn’t shake.

It was obvious she’d lied to him about not living at the trailer park. Probably her name, too. So maybe he wouldn’t tell her about himself. Those things he didn’t want anyone to know. He wouldn’t lie; he just wouldn’t tell her.

If she was going to pretend to be someone else, so would he.

As long as she didn’t find out his last name, or what he’d done, he could be anyone.

Suddenly the ache was back in his flesh. In his blood.

Thinking about her—the potential of her, the potential of who he could be with her—he was hard, again.

He sighed and put his head against his fist where it rested on the window. It was dark out there, the only light the bright spark of that campfire in the distance. And it was dark in his house.

It was dark in him. Always had been.

How easy it would be to lick his hand, slide it into his pants, and take care of this ache. Hard and fast, until at least for a brief bright moment, he could let himself go. Let all of it go.

But he didn’t much like easy.

He didn’t question how he knew it, but Layla would call him.

And he would wait for her.

But perhaps he would send her something. Just to move things along.





ANNIE


The next afternoon, there were sixteen bags of garbage stacked out near the road for trash pickup. Blistering and sunburnt, I stumbled back to my trailer only to find, there on my stoop, three giant tomatoes, each the size of my fist, and a small jar of mayonnaise.

Oh.

I glanced around, looking for Ben. But the park was quiet in the late afternoon hush. His garden was empty. Clutching the tomatoes and the mayo to my chest I brought them back inside, a smiling squirrel with forbidden nuts.

Despite being gross and in need of a shower, I toasted the last of the bagels that I’d bought from—believe it or not—a truck stop and slathered them with mayo and tomatoes. And I ate my lunch standing up.

Truck stops were kind of amazing places.

Once I’d bought the car, I made a study of truck stops from Pennsylvania down to North Carolina. And in most of them I’d been able to take a shower, as well as buy fresh fruit and some milk. And car parts, because the POS Toyota leaked oil like a sieve. Once I even splurged and had a club sandwich delivered to my parking spot. For a few quarters I’d been able to check the internet. Which I did religiously, searching the online versions of Oklahoma newspapers for news of my disappearance.

Everyone slept in their cars at truck stops, so no one came around at dawn to shoo me away.

If I’d wanted to, I could buy a new cell phone. A pet dog. A time-share in Florida. A gun. And jerky made out of camel meat.

But that was nothing compared to what I could have gotten at night.

At night I watched through the window of my car as the young girls came out in short skirts and heels so high they could barely walk. Or boys in tight pants, playing with their nipples through net shirts, talking to truckers who watched them like if they could, they would unhinge their jaws and swallow them whole.

Those girls and boys climbed into the trucks, smiling and licking their lips, only to come out an hour later, smiles vanished, tucking money into their pockets.

And I got it—I understood, they were playing a part. I knew all about that in my own life. But they were so convincing. So illicit and knowing. Forbidden and confident. The parking lots reeked of sex.

I watched them and wondered and thought about what went on in those trucks.

What I knew about sex could fit in a shoe box. A terribly small shoe box. And I knew that the reality of what was happening in those trucks was totally illegal, probably cold at best, and degrading more often than not.

But what if it wasn’t always? What if one of those truckers and one of those men or women were kind? Were excited? And careful? What if they were able to take something that could be awful and painful and scary and made it…nice? Or more than nice?

It’s not like I thought it was The Notebook happening in those trucks—I wasn’t stupid. I was just…hopeful.

And if I had hope for them…couldn’t I have hope for myself?

I thought about that in my car in those truck stops until I was…hungry.

And that was a hunger I had no idea how to feed.

—

A half hour later, still sweating, even after the coldest shower in the history of cold showers, I stood in the bedroom of my trailer and considered doing something I’d never done before:

Dropping the towel and lying down naked across my bed so the breeze coming through the screens would blow right across my hot body.

My naked body.

Because I could do that. No one was here to care. Or stop me.

I put my fingers against my neck. It was a sick habit, but I caught myself pressing my thumb against the worst of the bruises—just until it hurt again.

A reminder. An anchor…Don’t move too fast, Annie. Remember where you’re from.

Crouching down slightly, I caught sight of the world outside when the breeze came through the window. What if someone was standing right there? Just when the wind blew and someone saw me…naked on the bed?