The Lies About Truth(11)

Mom touched her friend on the arm. “It was a pleasure to help.”

The two of them linked arms like sisters and leaned their heads together. Max and I let them walk on ahead of us. He pointed to the Baggage sign and I fell into step with him down the short concourse.

When we arrived at the baggage carousels, Mom split away toward the exit and said, “I’m going to go pull the car up.”

Max spotted his mom’s bags immediately. He tugged two large crates and three pieces of luggage off the belt and dropped them next to me.

As I stepped away to grab a cart, a little girl, probably three or four, tugged on her mother’s shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, what happened to that lady’s mouth?”

“Trisha, it’s not nice to point,” the mom scolded the girl, and shot me a silent Sorry.

I shrugged to make the woman feel better, but everyone near us had already caught the spectacle. Great. Love being the local freak show. I made a mental note to stop smiling. Resting bitch-face calmed the scar at my mouth to a thin red line.

Max stroked my back the way Gray once had—in a way I could get used to—and said, “Shake that off. Kids are crazy.”

I went with it. “Yep,” I said, knowing my bravado failed.

Max pulled me into another full-body tackle-hug.

Somewhere in the distant past, I heard Trent’s voice say, “Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


I ran in my sleep that night—a route much longer than usual. In my dreams, I searched for Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth, and I was convinced finding it was the key to everything. I awoke tired until I remembered Max.

He was back, and we were going to hang out. Social time: A posse ad esse. He had promised he’d call as soon as he finished everything his mother needed. If I knew Sonia, she’d have him tied up until late afternoon. That meant I had time to go out to the salvage yard.

In the still-dark morning, I scribbled a one-word note—Out—for my parents, checked the mailbox—empty—and hopped on my scooter. The scooter was a compromise. Mom and Dad didn’t want me dependent on them. I didn’t want to drive. Fletcher suggested the scooter as middle ground. So I chose a black Spree and a really expensive helmet. It was—basically—one step above a golf cart, and I drove it like an old man.

It was too damn hot to walk everywhere, so it was a good battle to lose. Plus, the air felt good on my skin. Jenni, owner of the Donut Barista, leaned out the pick-up window of her shack and waved. I cut the Spree’s engine, pocketed the key, and left my helmet on to order.

“The Friday usual?” she asked, bubbly as ever.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Coming up in two shakes of a dog’s tail. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

If today were a category five hurricane, it would still register as a lovely day on her scale. Jenni loved doughnuts and coffee and serving people the way preachers loved long prayers. She wore her heart in her eyes, and I liked her more than I knew how to show. I’d never seen her outside the shack, but I imagined her as a grandmother. At home, she probably wore jeans with an elastic band, a pair of mall-walker white shoes, and answered to little kids who called her Nana.

I liked to imagine things about people.

There weren’t many people in my life anymore, so for the few I interacted with, I tried to cultivate real relationships.

“Jenni, you know Max? The guy I’ve been telling you about.”

“Absolutely. He’s your sweet honey in El Salvador?”

I nodded. “He came home yesterday.”

She howled with delight. “You want to make this a triple?”

“Naw, we’re getting together later. I just wanted to tell someone.”

She heard how happy I was. Hell, I heard how happy I was. It sounded strange.

“You’ll have to bring him by.” She fitted the lid on one steaming-hot cup of joe and stuck a straw in my iced latte, patting my hand before reaching for my credit card.

I flipped up the visor on my helmet and thanked her. There was something very satisfying about knowing someone in small percentages.

“Thanks, Jenni.”

“You are most welcome, Sadie Kingston.”

Jenni made note of my whole name on the first day and repeated it once a visit. I added a three-dollar tip to the card. I couldn’t afford to do that all the time, but today was special. I felt generous. No envelopes in the mail, Mom and Dad were satisfied with my going-to-the-airport effort, and I was pretty sure I’d get another hug from Max. Maybe more.

Jenni felt generous too. The weight of my doughnut bag equaled more than my order.

Sprinkler systems on the main drag forced me to back streets and the back streets led me into the country. The sun sprinted up the sky, and sweat tickled my back in a matter of minutes. By the time I rolled up to the gates of Metal Pete’s Fine Salvage Yard, I’d sucked down half my iced coffee and considered chugging the rest.

“Cool it down, Florida,” I pleaded.

Florida stuck out both middle fingers and zapped away the tiny breeze.

I hiked my sleeves to three-quarter length, parked the Spree, and grabbed Metal Pete’s breakfast.

The auto salvage business fascinated me. From the road, it looked like an unorganized metal shit-fest. Up close was a different story. Row after row of damaged cars, in various states of decay, took up fifteen acres of land. Every car, truck, RV, school bus, motorcycle, and boat had been inventoried and arranged with customers in mind. I’d been here dozens of times, and the ocean of debris still made me stare in awe and sadness.