Seven Ways We Lie(60)

My steps falter. They don’t deserve to worry.

But running has served me well so far. So I slip into Lucas’s car, and we drive away.


“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” I ASK.

“I don’t know,” Lucas says. “Back when I lived in New York, sometimes my friends and I would get on random trains. We got off at the stops with the funniest names, and then we’d wander around and find the smallest stores and the weirdest restaurants. Talked to strangers.”

“That sounds incredibly reckless and borderline dangerous.”

“Nah, it was awesome. There were always six of us, and jeez, it was worth it. I remember those days so much better than anything else.” His voice floats off, wistful.

Looking out the window, I imagine the New York City skyscrapers. Paloma must be so boring in comparison. The idea makes me feel strangely self-conscious, as if I’m responsible for this town’s thorough lack of luster.

“Sorry, by the way,” he says. “For kidnapping you. I have a lot of energy today.”

“Understandable.”

We share the silence for a moment, the knowledge of Juniper’s affair simmering between us.

“You really think we shouldn’t say anything?” he says.

“I want to know more. That’s all I think: that we don’t have enough justification to take any position besides waiting.”

He doesn’t answer. An idea sneaks into my mind. I debate with myself for a second.

“Stay on this road,” I say.

“You have a plan, huh?”

I nod.

We pass the strip mall, where storekeepers roll the grates down over their windows. In the evening, the town shuts down piece by piece. The few remaining lights glower like candles that have burned too low. The only thing still alive is the McDonald’s, glowing gloomily across the street.

We pass through Juniper’s neighborhood, with its arboreal street names and houses almost anonymous in their luxury. Then we twist through another neighborhood, whose wealth is all show: statues posing on lawns; tacky, sprawling villas pinned up in pastels, pillars, and BMWs. Finally, we cross a grid of streets with tiny bungalows crammed two to a driveway, and we leave Paloma.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” Lucas reminds me as we head into the countryside.

“Just keep driving.”

After a few minutes of darkening, thinning road, I throw out a hand. “There,” I say, pointing. Lucas jerks the wheel with the heel of his hand, and we careen hard left onto a dirt trail. His truck bounces, its frame producing a symphony of creaks and clanks.

Towering, dark trees whizz along to our right; a fallow field yawns unendingly to our left. An abandoned grain silo, half-buckled, juts out of the dirt like the hulk of a sinking ship. We cross a narrow bridge into the woods as the last sliver of sun collapses beneath the horizon. Lucas brings us poking through a copse of trees, casting wide-eyed glances out his side window. “Jeez,” he says, “I’ve never been out here. I thought I’d seen everything within ten miles.”

“Slow down,” I say. His foot jams the brakes too enthusiastically, and we jolt forward. I sigh, feeling a strange sort of affection for his awful driving.

The truck noses out from the trees, emerging at the top of a steep hill. We halt. Ahead, the road sweeps down and around the edge of a huge hidden lake.

Even from here, I can tell that the lake water is dirtier than I remember, scummy around the edges. It’s spiked with deadwood, and its banks are clogged with the skeletons of leaves. But Lucas looks as if he’s seeing God. “Whoa,” he breathes. He puts the truck into park, hops out, and jogs down the dirt path. I follow at a walk.

“Wow, wow,” he says, the words lost in the wind whirling down the hill after him. When the bluster calms, silence settles. In the summer, when I usually visit, this place is alive with the humming of insects, the screeching of crickets. Dark and quiet like this, it’s austere.

“You come here a lot?” he calls up to me as I walk down the last part of the hill.

“When I need to think.” I approach him, hands in my pockets, and stop at his side.

He nudges me. “Thanks for this. Rough weekend.”

“Yes,” I say.

For once, Lucas seems content to let the silence linger, rather than filling it with talk. I stare at the murky water, thoughts dancing in my head. It’s strange, this new capacity to share those thoughts with someone else. I’m so used to ruminating alone that the possibility of bouncing my feelings off another person feels oddly luxurious.

Words come haltingly from my mouth. It’s the first time I’ve expressed something like this, let on to anyone anything besides self-assurance. “It’s my fault,” I say, “she wound up in the hospital.”

There’s a brief silence. Within those three seconds, every tiny social fear rips at me. What if he agrees? What if he scoffs at this feeling of guilt? What if he doesn’t care?

But when Lucas speaks, it’s soft and earnest. “Why?”

“I—she told me she needed to use the bathroom, when of course she wanted to go off and drink more, but I believed her, like a complete moron.”

“Hey, no. That’s not your fault. Anyone else would’ve done the same.”

“I’m not anyone else,” I say, affronted. “I should have known better.”