In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(13)
Now, though, I’m antsy as hell. It’s hot in my apartment, even with the air conditioner that I had to drive an hour to find. I spent the day making sure I knew where everything was: my classes, my office, the library, the one pizza joint that stays open after ten. I’ve finished all the reading and done course planning for my first week of classes. I’ve watched four documentaries that have been in my Netflix queue for ages. And I may or may not have googled “Rex + Michigan” to no avail.
I decide I just need to get out of the house, so I throw on shoes and grab my beat-up copy of The Secret History. I’ve read it a hundred times, but it fits perfectly in my back pocket and it’s a comfort book: as long as I’m reading it, it doesn’t matter where I am. Besides, the main character of the book leaves his home in California to go to college in a small town where he’s never been before, so it seems particularly relevant to my life right now. I figure I’ll take a walk and find a park bench to read on or something.
It really is beautiful here once it’s not sweltering. I’m actually looking forward to the winter; I bet it looks like a storybook village when everything’s covered with snow. The quiet freaks me out, though, so I pop in the earbuds of my beat-up iPod, saying a tiny prayer to the music gods, as I do every time I use it these days, that it’ll last me just one more year.
That was my mantra all through grad school. When I first started, it was a nightmare. Everyone at Penn came from good colleges that had prepared them for the classes. I went to community college for three years, then transferred to Temple and squeezed all my remaining credits into one year since it’s all I could afford. I’m pretty sure I only got into grad school at Penn because they needed to fill a quota of first generation college students or something. I was totally unprepared, but I told myself that after one year, the playing field would have evened. One more year. Then, when I was so exhausted from doing all my reading and writing for coursework while bartending five nights a week, I would tell myself, Just one more year and then you’ll be done with coursework and starting your dissertation. When I felt like I would never finish writing, I told myself, One more year; you just have to hang on for one more year.
Now, here I am. If I can just deal with my crappy apartment for one more year, I’ll have enough money for a nicer place. If my car will just keep running for one more year, I’ll be able to get a new one—well, a less-used one. Et cetera. One more year.
I’ve walked farther than I meant to, away from campus, and somehow, even though I’ve always associated Tom Waits with the city, his voice like pavement and whiskey and heartbreak, listening to him makes me see the winding road in front of me in a new light. He’s the perfect soundtrack to this deserted place, the only light now from the moon, the trees encroaching.
I’m looking up at the moon, feeling a bit smug and rather impressed by myself for, like, being in nature, when I’m knocked over from behind.
I pitch forward, barely catching myself on my right hand, and jerk my earbuds out, whipping my head around to see where the attack is coming from. I should have f*cking known better than to be walking alone at night when I couldn’t hear someone coming. I’ve known that since I was twelve years old. I can’t believe I thought it was safe here just because there’s nothing to f*cking do. Serial killers, Daniel! Remember?
All this runs through my mind in the second it takes me to see that I am, in fact, not about to be serial killed. Because what knocked me over was a dog. A brown and white dog that is now licking my face and trying to put its paws on my shoulders.
“Marilyn! Marilyn, here, girl.”
I know that voice. That low, commanding voice. Not as gravelly as Tom Waits, but so much more welcome.
Rex.
Chapter 3
August
HE COMES crashing through the trees and, from my current position on the ground, he looks even bigger and more imposing than I remember.
He practically skids to a stop when he sees me.
The dog—Marilyn, apparently—barks once at Rex and then sits down next to me, one paw on my knee.
My head is swimming, and it’s not from being knocked over. He’s here. He’s really here. If I’m being honest, I’ve thought about him so much more than I even admitted to Ginger. In the six months since I got back from Michigan, I’ve imagined him a thousand times. What he might be doing, what he would say to me if he were there—even though I have no idea what he would say, since I don’t know him. I’ve told myself that a hundred times too. I even got Gaslight from the library and watched it on my computer, pretending he was sitting next to me on my crappy couch in Philadelphia. Then I took my computer to bed and watched it a second time, pretending he was there all over again.
I don’t do this. This isn’t what I do. I don’t moon over guys. I don’t pine. I don’t wonder what they’re doing. I never have. I mean, sure, I’ve had crushes. Usually, though, I just show up and if someone’s appealing, I go for it. It’s always been just sex, except for my monumentally stupid time with Richard.
But now I’m sitting here on the ground like an idiot because the man I’ve fantasized about, dreamed of, and jerked off to is finally standing in front of me and I do not have a clue what to say.
He leans toward me, quizzical.
“Daniel?” He sounds shocked.