Lies You Never Told Me(36)

“Night,” I say to the little cluster of co-workers who just ended their shift. They mill around, lighting cigarettes, bitching about the cold. Most of them are a few years older than me. It scares me sometimes, how at home I feel with them; it scares me that I might be here forever.

“Sure you don’t want to go with us to IHOP?” Rita Solano, my fellow concessions lackey, asks. She’s one of the few girls my age who works there, a whip-smart dropout with four little siblings she’s helping to raise. “You look like you could use a break.”

I think about it. They’ll all sit at the diner until three in the morning, slugging back bottomless cups of coffee and sharing plates of cheese fries. I go out with them sometimes, and it’s usually chill. Fun to gossip, to be out late, to crack jokes at each other’s expense. Fun to feel connected to other people trapped in wage-slave hell. But I feel like I’m asleep on my feet. Plus Mom’s at home. She’s feeling better—less nauseous, at least—but she’s still pretty delicate. I can’t leave her alone for the night.

“I’m tired,” I say. “I’ve gotta go home. I’ll see you Monday night, though.”

She gives a little wave and turns back to the others, their laughter rising up in an echoing chorus.

It makes the parking lot feel especially lonely, walking away from the light and the noise, across the dark expanse to the bus stop. Exhaustion weighs me down, but I tuck my purse under my arm and walk quickly. I’ve been riding the bus home from work all year, sometimes in the middle of the night, and while nothing bad’s ever happened, the theater’s in a pretty shitty neighborhood. I’ve been propositioned more than once—and a guy followed me all the way down the street making kissing noises at me. The best thing to do is to get on the bus as quick as I can. There’s one at 1:47, and if I miss it the next one won’t be along for a half hour.

I hear the motor of a starting engine. Rita’s Camaro roars past me, honking, and a few other cars trail behind her. Then there’s silence. I look up and down the empty expanse of the parking lot, shivering in my thin coat. The distant lights of the street are bright but glamourless.

There’s a single car parked in the middle of the lot. Must be a customer’s car. Maybe the driver walked to the dive bar down the street after the movie, leaving the car behind. But as I pass it I see something move inside.

Someone’s sitting in the driver’s seat.

My pulse picks up. I change course, angling as far away from the car as I can. It’s probably just a drunk, trying to sober up before hitting the road. Or maybe someone living out of their car, trying to find a place to sleep for the night. But even though I can’t make out the driver’s features, I can sense his attention on me—can imagine his eyes burning as they follow me. I fight the urge to bolt.

The engine growls to life. A strangled whimper comes unbidden from my throat, my breath coming quicker now. I grip my cell phone in my fingers, ready to call 911 if I have to. You’re overreacting. It’s nothing. But I pick up the pace, tucking my head down and making a beeline for the road.

When I hear tires crunching slowly behind me I can’t hold it in any longer. I break into a run. I drop my backpack and tear toward the bright lights of the road. It feels impossibly far away. My feet slam against the concrete. A sharp pinch shoots through my lungs.

I hear shouting. It takes me a moment to recognize my name.

“Elyse. Elyse!”

The engine dies behind me, but the lights don’t turn off. I slow to a trot and turn to look behind me.

It’s Mr. Hunter.

I can just make out his features in the glare of the headlights. He gets out of the car and walks over to my backpack, stooping to pick it up. I stop where I am and stare. The adrenaline still shudders down my limbs, but its intensity shifts. I’m no longer feeling fight-or-flight; instead, a warm tingle of anticipation tickles through my veins.

“I’m so sorry.” He walks over and hands me my bag. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you saw my face. I should’ve parked near a light.”

“What are you doing here?” I realize as soon as it’s out of my mouth that it’s a dumb way to ask the question. What I really mean is, Why are you lingering in a dark parking lot? But he either doesn’t pick up on that or ignores it.

“Seeing a movie. I didn’t know you worked here.”

“I didn’t see you in there. You must not have gotten any popcorn.”

He grins. “Don’t tell anyone, but I smuggled in a box of Junior Mints.”

My hands fly up to my mouth in mock astonishment. “Breaching the sacred trust between moviegoer and concessions? Mr. Hunter, I am shocked. Shocked!”

He laughs. “Want a ride home?”

My exhaustion lifts off me, as if by magic. I walk around to the passenger side door and climb in.



* * *



? ? ?

The streetlights flutter through the car and vanish as we drive under them. His radio is on very low, an old Smiths song thrumming along with the hum of wheels on pavement. I watch him out of the corner of my eyes, leaning back against the headrest.

“You really take the bus home in the middle of the night?” he asks. “Seems kind of dangerous.”

“It’s not so bad,” I say. “The drivers keep an eye out for me. And it’s only about a fifteen-minute ride.”