This Close to Okay(83)

“On it,” Joel said, taking River on his lap and giving him the phone from his pocket. Joel told Tallie he was going to hang around a little longer and that Ben and some more of Lionel’s friends would be coming tomorrow.

“Text or call me if you want to,” Tallie said, “to let me know when you’re coming back up here…before you leave town.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Joel said, touching the top of River’s head before lifting his hand and holding it still, frozen in a wave.

*



Tallie’s phone lit up with preciousness as Aisha’s face filled her screen. She swiped to answer it, walking fast through the parking lot.

“Girl. I can’t talk for long right now, but I have so much to tell you. You wouldn’t believe it. Like, so much,” Tallie said.

“Okaaay. Is Li all right? As soon as I turned my phone on when I got back home, it blew up with texts saying his costume caught fire at the party. But he’s in the hospital now?” Aisha said. Aisha’s voice did a good job of bringing Tallie to reality. She walked to the car, filling her in as quickly as she could about Lionel’s accident and Joel showing up. She told her she was giving a new friend a ride and would call her soon, explain everything later. She ended the call, saw her car was empty, and walked closer with a sludgy sick stomach, worried Rye was gone.

But when she peeked in the window, she saw him inside with the seat laid back, one arm thrown over his face, looking like a sweet child she’d do anything for. And all he wanted was for her to take him to the bridge. She’d play along. An embarrassingly bottom-of-the-barrel therapy trick—reverse psychology. Bridge bridge bridge. If he wanted the bridge so bad, that’s where they’d go.

*



“So after all this, you won’t talk?” Tallie said, shattering the silence in her car. Rye remained quiet. “We’ve talked all weekend, and…”

“We’ve lied all weekend,” Rye finally said after a stretch of taciturnity.

“Not everything I said was a lie. Yes, I lied and said I was a teacher. Maybe it was unethical for me to not disclose that I’m a therapist, but I’m not perfect and never claimed to be. I’m a professional secret keeper,” she said, wildly gesturing with a free hand before putting it on the stick shift. “I guess you are, too, now.”

Rye turned to her as she stopped at a red light. He had the same haunted, heavy look he had on his face when she found him Thursday evening. Gone was the Emmett in her kitchen, the Emmett making biscuits and charming her mother yesterday morning, the dashing Emmett the night before in his suit at Lionel’s party, kissing and kissing her. Bridge manifested himself as they neared the Ohio River. But. She couldn’t control him. He’d been an unknowing participant in talk therapy. They were soon to part ways. If he didn’t want help, she couldn’t force him. She had to get some rest because she would be waking up early for her morning appointments. She had a life, and it was just as important as everyone else’s. Rye needed to take care of himself the same way she did.

“Look. I’ve apologized. You’ve apologized. So that’s it,” Tallie said, minutes away from the bridge.

“So that’s it,” he said quietly, parroting her to the glass of the passenger window.

Those minutes were biblically torturous, as if they’d been planned out by some cruel god. The tension, thick and solid, as if the car had been filled with concrete.

As they approached the bridge, Tallie thought she might puke. If she could stop the car and lean out, purge herself, she could feel better. How was he feeling? Angry but relieved? Sad but angry? Humans could feel a million different ways at the same time. It wasn’t like one emotion politely cleared out to make way for another. Most often they smudged together like daubs of paint, mixing and making new colors and feelings altogether.

A few cars—some red taillights and the occasional flash and disappearance of headlights. The night had fallen like a lid on a pot. The bridge was lit up, and there was a skinny walkway and crisscross of metal that was merely aesthetic. Rye had climbed over the railing easily on Thursday. If someone were determined to jump from the bridge, the railing would be of no consequence. Tallie pulled her car aside and shut it off, punched on her hazards the same way she’d done on Thursday. All roads led back to that bridge in an ever-widening gyre.

“Here’s your bridge,” she said, nauseated. She hoped he’d back off and finally let this go once he saw it. That’s what she prayed. She needed water. There was an old water bottle in the driver’s-side cup holder. It crinkled in her hands and she took a plasticky drink, choked it down. She needed fresh water, food, a solid ten hours of sleep.

Rye stared straight ahead.

“Okay.”

“Okay, then.”

“Thank you,” he said when he looked at her. He put his hand on the door handle without pulling it.

“This is what you want? Really, Rye? This? What do you want, Rye? What do you want?” Tallie said with a swelling panic, like an orchestra tuning before playing the discordant devil’s chord. Nope. No way could she let him get out of the car.

“I mean it when I say thank you. And here: this is for you, too,” he said, unzipping his backpack and pulling out the envelope of cash. He held it out for her, and when she wouldn’t take it, he put it on the dash.