Читать книгу The Edge of Never, The Edge of Always: 2-Book Collection - J. Redmerski A. - Страница 31

I wake up after dark when Andrew slows down through a toll. I don’t know how long I slept, but I feel like I got a full night in, despite being curled up in the corner of the passenger’s seat with my head against the door. I should be trying to rub out a couple of stiff muscles like when I rode on the bus, but I feel good.

“Where are we?” I ask, cupping my hand over my mouth to cover the yawn.

“Middle of nowhere Wellington, Kansas,” he says. “You slept a long time.”

I rise up the rest of the way and let my eyes and body adjust to being awake again. Andrew pulls onto another road.

“I guess I did, better than I slept on the bus the entire trip from North Carolina to Wyoming.”

I look at the glowing blue letters on the car stereo: 10:14 p.m. A song is funneling low from the speakers. It makes me think of when I met him back on the bus. I smile to myself feeling like he made sure to keep it at a low level in the car while I slept.

“What about you?” I ask, turning around to see him, the darkness casting his face in partial shadow. “I feel weird offering because it’s your dad’s car, but I’m good to drive if you need me to.”

“Nah, you shouldn’t feel weird,” he says. “It’s just a car. A precious antique that my dad would string your ass up from a ceiling fan for if he ever knew you were behind the wheel, but I would totally let you drive it.” Even in the shadow, I see the right side of his mouth pull into a devious grin.

“Well, I’m not so sure I want to anymore.”

“He’s dying, remember? What’s he gonna do?”

“That’s not funny, Andrew.”

He knows it’s not. I’m fully aware of the game he’s playing with himself, always looking for anything to help him cope with what’s going on but coming up short. I just wonder how much longer he’ll be able to keep this up. The misplaced jokes will eventually run dry and he’s not going to know what to do with himself.

“We’ll stop at the next motel,” he says, turning onto another road. “I’ll get some shut-eye there.”

Then he glances over at me. “Separate rooms, of course.”

I’m glad he had that part sorted out so fast. I may be driving awkwardly across the U.S. alone with him, but I don’t think I can share a room with him, too.

“Great,” I say, stretching my arms out in front of me with my fingers locked. “I need a shower and to brush my teeth for about an hour.”

“No arguments there,” he jokes.

“Hey, your breath isn’t all that great, either.”

“I know it,” he says, cupping one hand over his mouth and breathing sharply into it. “It smells like I ate that horrid shit casserole my aunt makes for Thanksgiving every year.”

I laugh out loud.

“Bad choice of words,” I say. “Shit casserole? Really?” I mentally gag.

Andrew laughs, too.

“Hell, it might as well be—I love my Aunt Deana, but the woman was not blessed with the ability to cook.”

“Sounds like my mom.”

“That must suck,” he says, glancing over. “Growing up on Ramen noodles and Hot Pockets.”

I shake my head. “No, I taught myself how to cook—I don’t eat unhealthy food, remember?”

Andrew’s smiling face is lit up by a soft gray light pouring from the light posts along the street.

“Oh, that’s right,” he says, “no bloody burgers or greasy fries for little Miss Rice Cakes.”

I make a bleh! face, disputing his rice cake theory.

Minutes later we’re pulling into a small two-floor motel parking lot; the kind with rooms that open up outside instead of an inside hallway. We get out and stretch our legs—Andrew stretches legs, arms, his neck, pretty much everything—and we grab our bags from the backseat. He leaves the guitar.

“Lock the door,” he says, pointing.

We enter the lobby to the smell of dusty vacuum cleaner bags and coffee.

“Two singles side by side if you’ve got them,” Andrew says, whipping out his wallet from his back pocket.

I swing my purse around in front of me and reach in for my little zipper wallet. “I can pay for my room.”

“No, I got it.”

“No, seriously, let me pay.”

“I said, no, alright, so just put your money away.”

I do, reluctantly.

The middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair pulled into a sloppy bun at the back of her head looks at us blankly. She goes back to tapping on her keyboard to see what rooms are available.

“Smoking or non-smoking?” she asks, looking at Andrew.

I notice her eyes slip down the length of his muscled arms as he fishes for his credit card.

“Non-smoking.”

Tap, tap, tap. Click, click, click. Back and forth between the keyboard and the mouse.

“The only singles I have right next to each other are one smoking and one non-smoking.”

“We’ll take them,” he says, handing her a card.

She pulls it from between his fingers and all the while she watches every little move his hand makes until it falls away from her eyes down behind the counter.

Hmm.

After we pay and get our room keys, we head back outside and to the car where Andrew grabs the guitar from the backseat.

“I should’ve asked before we got here,” he says as I follow alongside him, “but if you’re hungry I can run up the street and get you something if you want.”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Are you sure?” He looks over at me.

“Yeah, I’m not hungry at all, but if I do get hungry I can just get something from the vending machine.”

He slides the keycard into the first door and a green light appears. He clicks open the door afterwards.

“But there’s nothing but sugar and fat in those things,” he says, recalling our earlier conversations about junk food.

We walk into the fairly dull-looking room with a single bed pressed against a wood headboard mounted behind it on the wall. The bedspread is brown and ugly and scares the crap out of me. The room itself smells clean and looks decent enough, but I have never slept in any motel without stripping the bed of the bedspread first. There’s no telling what’s living on them, or when the last time was they were washed.

Andrew inhales deeply, getting a good whiff of the room.

“This is the non-smoking room,” he says, looking around as if inspecting it first. “This one’s yours.” He sets the guitar down against the wall and walks into the small bathroom, flips on the light, tests out the fan and then goes over to the window on the other side of the bed and tests the air conditioner—it is the middle of July, after all. Then he goes to the bed and carefully pulls back the comforter and examines the sheets and pillows.

“What are you lookin’ for?”

He says without looking at me, “Making sure it’s clean; I don’t want you sleeping in any funky shit.”

I blush hard and turn away before he can see it.

“Kind of early for bed,” he says, stepping away from the bed and taking up the guitar again, “but the drive did take a lot out of me.”

“Well, technically you haven’t slept since before we got off the bus back in Cheyenne.”

I drop my purse and bag down on the foot of the bed.

“True,” he says. “So that means I’ve been up for about eighteen hours. Damn, I didn’t realize.”

“Exhaustion will do that to you.”

He walks to the door and places his hand on the silver lever, clicking it open again. I just stand here at the foot of the bed. It’s an awkward moment, but it doesn’t last.

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning,” he says from the doorway. “I’m right next to you in 110, so just call or knock or bang on the wall if you need me.” There’s only kindness and sincerity in his face.

I nod, smiling in answer.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

“Night.”

And he slips out, shutting the door softly behind him.

After absently thinking about him for a second, I snap out of it and rummage around inside my bag. This will be the first shower I’ve had in couple of long days. I’m drooling just thinking about it. I yank out a clean pair of panties and my favorite white cotton shorts and varsity babydoll tee with pink and blue stripes around the quarter-sleeves. Then I find my toothbrush, toothpaste and Listerine and head to the bathroom carrying it all with me. I strip down naked, happily pulling all of the days-old dirty clothes off and tossing them in a pile on the floor. I stare at myself in the mirror. Oh my God, I’m hideous! My makeup has completely worn off; I barely even have any mascara on anymore. More wandering strands of blonde hair have fallen from my braid and are smashed against one side of my head in a rat’s nest.

I can’t believe I’m been driving around with Andrew looking like this.

I reach up and pull the hairband from the braid to release the rest of the hair and then run my fingers through it to break it all apart. I brush my teeth first and leave my mouth full of mint Listerine long until after the burning has already stopped.

The shower is like heaven. I stay in it forever, letting the semi-scalding hot water beat on me until I can’t take it anymore and the heat starts to lull me to sleep standing up. I clean everything. Twice. Just because I can and because it’s been so damn long. Lastly I shave, glad to get rid of that gross wig I was starting to grow on my legs. And finally, I turn off the squeaky faucets and go for the white motel towel folded OCD-like on a rack over the back of the toilet.

I hear the shower running in Andrew’s room next door and I catch myself just listening to it. I picture him in there, just showering, nothing sexual or perverted even though something like that wouldn’t be hard to do at all. I just think about him in general, about what we’re doing and why. I think about his dad and it breaks my heart all over again knowing how much Andrew is hurting and how I feel helpless to do anything for him. Finally, I force myself back into me and into my life and my issues, which really have nothing on Andrew’s.

I hope it never comes down to me being forced to tell him my problems and all of the things that led me on that road-to-nowhere bus trip, because I will feel so stupid and selfish. My problems are nothing compared to his.

I get into bed with wet hair, combing it out with my fingers. I turn on the TV—not tired at all since I just slept most of the way from Denver—and flip through the channels, eventually leaving it on some random movie with Jet Li. But it’s more for background noise than anything.

Mom called four times and left four messages.

Still nothing from Natalie.

“How are you doing in Virginia?” my mom says into my ear. “Having loads of fun, I hope.”

“Yeah, it’s been great. How are you?”

My mom giggles on the other end of the phone and instinctively it repels me. There’s a man with her. Oh gross, I hope she’s not talking to me in bed, naked, with some guy licking her neck.

“I’ve been good, baby,” she says. “Still seeing Roger—going on that cruise next weekend.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

She giggles again.

I scrunch up my nose.

“Well, baby, I need to go. Stop it, Roger.” She giggles again. I’m going to throw up in my mouth. “I just wanted to know how you were doing. Please call me tomorrow sometime and give me an update, alright?”

“OK, Mom, I will. Love you.”

We hang up and I let the phone fall on the bed in front of me. Then I fall back against my pillows, instantly thinking about Andrew being in the room next door. He may be leaning his head against the same wall. I flip through the channels some more until I’ve been through every one of them at least five times and then just give up.

I slump down further and look at the room.

The sound of Andrew playing the guitar pulls me out of myself and I lift my back slowly from the pillows so I can hear it more clearly. It’s a soft tune, kind of something in between searching and lamentable. And then when the chorus comes around, the speed picks up just a fraction only to lament again for the next verse. It’s absolutely beautiful.

I listen to him play for the next fifteen minutes and then it goes silent. I had turned the TV off before I first heard him and now all that I can hear is a constant drip coming from the bathroom sink and the occasional car driving through the motel parking lot.

I drift off to sleep and the dream comes back:

That morning, I didn’t get my usual string of text messages from Ian before I got out of bed. I tried calling his phone, but it rang and rang and the voicemail never picked up. And Ian wasn’t at school when I got there.

Everybody was staring at me as I walked through the halls. Some couldn’t look me in the eye. Jennifer Parsons burst into tears when I walked past her at her locker, while another group of girls, cheerleaders, turned their noses up at me and eyed me as though I was something contagious. I didn’t know what was going on, but I felt like I had walked into some freaky alternate reality. No one would say a word to me, but it was so damn obvious that everybody in that school knew something that I didn’t. And it was bad. I never really had any enemies, except sometimes a few of the cheerleaders showed jealousy towards me because Ian loved me and wouldn’t give them the time of day. What can I say? Ian Walsh was hotter than the star quarterback and it didn’t matter to anyone, not even Emily Derting, the richest girl in Millbrook High School, that Ian didn’t have much and that his parents still drove him to school.

She still wanted him.

Everybody did.

I went on to my locker, hoping to see Natalie soon so maybe she could tell me what was going on. I lingered around my locker longer than usual waiting for any sign of her. It was Damon who found me and told me what happened. He pulled me off to the side, in between the alcove that housed the water fountains. My heart was hammering inside my chest. I knew something was wrong when I got up that morning, even before I realized there were no text messages from Ian. I felt … off. It was like I knew …

“Camryn,” Damon said and I knew right then the seriousness of what he was about to tell me because he and Natalie always call me ‘Cam’. “Ian was in a car accident last night …”

I felt my breath catch and both of my hands flew to my mouth. Tears were burning my throat and streaming from my eyes.

“He died early this morning at the hospital.” Damon was trying so hard to tell me this, but the pain in his face was unmistakable.

I just stared at Damon for what felt like an eternity before I couldn’t stand up on my own anymore and I collapsed into his arms. I cried and cried until I made myself sick and finally Natalie found us and they both helped me into the nurse’s office.

I wake up from the nightmare sweating, my heart racing like mad. I throw the sheet off of me and sit in the center of the bed with my knees drawn up, running my hands across my head and I let out a long sigh. The dream had stopped a long time ago. In fact, it was the last dream I remember having. Why is it back?

A loud banging on my room door jolts me up.

“RISE AND SHINE BUTTERCUP!” Andrew says harmoniously from the other side.

I don’t even remember when I fell back asleep after the dream. The sun is shining through a sliver parted between the curtains, pooling on the tan carpet just below the window. I rise up from the bed and push back the sloppy hair away from my face and go to open the door before he wakes up the whole motel.

He’s gawking at me when I open the door.

“Damn girl,” he says, looking me over, “what the hell are you trying to do to me?”

I look down at myself, still trying to wake up the rest of the way and realize I’m in those tiny cotton white shorts and varsity tee with no bra on underneath. Oh my God, my nipples are like beacons shining through my shirt! I cross my arms over my chest and try not to look him in the eyes when he helps himself the rest of the way inside.

“I was going to tell you to get dressed,” he goes on, grinning as he walks into the room carrying his bags and the guitar, “but really, you can go just like that if you want.”

I shake my head, hiding the smile creeping up on my face.

He plops down on the chair by the window and sets his stuff on the floor. He’s wearing a pair of tan cargo shorts that drop just past his knees, a plain dark gray t-shirt and those low black running shoes with no-show socks, or no socks at all. I glimpse the tattoo on his ankle; looks like some kind of circular-shaped Celtic design positioned right over his ankle bone. And he definitely has runner’s legs; his calves are bulging with tight muscles.

“Wait there and I’ll get ready,” I say, going toward my bag sitting on the elongated dresser where the TV sits on the opposite end.

“How long will this take?” he asks and I detect a hint of interrogation in his voice.

Remembering what he said back at his dad’s house, I think about my answer first and weigh my options: my usual thirty-minute prep time, or cave to a throw-it-on-and-go?

He helps me out with the dilemma:

“You have two minutes.”

“Two minutes?” I argue.

He nods, grinning. “You heard me. Two minutes.” He holds up two wriggling fingers. “You agreed to do whatever I said, remember?”

“Yeah, but I thought it was going to be crazy stuff like mooning someone from a moving car or eating bugs.”

One of his brows rises and he draws back his chin as if I just slapped two ideas into his lap. “In time you will moon someone from a moving car and eat a bug—we’ll get to that.”

What the hell did I just do?

My head rolls backward in dispute and mortification and my hands fly to my hips. “Uh, there is no way—” I notice his grin has changed into something more ‘crafty school boy’ and I look down, realizing my arms are no longer covering my nipples poking so proudly through the thin fabric of my shirt. I let out a puff of air and my mouth falls open. “Andrew!”

He lowers his head with false shame, but it just makes him appear more devious the way he looks back up under hooded eyes at me.

He is so fucking hot …

“Hey, you’re the one who’d rather complain about the ground rules than protect your girls from my eyes—I should warn you they have a mind of their own.”

“Yeah, I bet they aren’t the only things on you with a mind of their own.” I smirk and grab my bag, shuffling my way barefooted into the bathroom and shutting the door.

I’m smiling like one of those 1980s cheesy portrait studio photos when I look at myself in the mirror.

OK, two minutes. I literally dive into my bra and tight jeans, jumping up and down to get them to slide over my butt. Zip. Button. Brush teeth thoroughly. A quick shot of Listerine. Swish. Gargle. Spit. Comb out raggedy hair and twist it into a sloppy braid over my right shoulder. A little bit of foundation and a light layer of powder. Black mascara, because mascara is the most important piece of makeup in the arsenal. Lipsti—

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Your two minutes are up!”

I smooth the lipstick on anyway and blot with a square of toilet paper.

I can tell he’s smiling on the other side of the bathroom door and when I open it a second later, I see that I was right. He stands with both arms raised above his head, propped on the doorjamb. His hard six-pack is partially visible with his shirt raised up high with his arms. A little happy trail moves from just below his belly button and down beneath the waist of his shorts.

“See? Look at you?” He whistles while blocking the door, but I’m definitely not the one of us I’m looking at. “Simple is sexy.”

I push my way past him, finding the perfect opportunity to press my palms against his chest and he lets me pass.

“Didn’t know I was trying to be sexy for you,” I say with my back turned, throwing the clothes I slept in inside my bag.

“Wow, look at that,” he goes on, “simple, sexy and disorganized—I’m proud!”

I didn’t even realize it. I just shoved my clothes into the bag without even thinking of trying to be neat about it. I’m not ‘clinically’ OCD; I’m just one of those people who claim the acronym because of a few methodical habits. Still, folding my clothes and trying to be neat is something I’ve always done since I was like eleven.