Not only was his shitty treatment unwelcome, it was unwarranted. Maybe she’d jumped to conclusions, but he certainly wasn’t guilt-free.
Straightening her previously slumped posture, she echoed the irritation in his voice. “I don’t know, Walker. I don’t want to crowd you with all my baggage.”
“Go. Don’t go. Whatever, I don’t care.”
Welp, since he put it that way, she waved and walked away. “Have a good trip.”
The few steps back to her room felt like the Trail of Tears. She was right back where she started—broke, homeless, and dumped. Scratch that, she was behind the starting line, because she was about to lose her only friend.
Now what? Should she call Skip back? Pack? Run away? Go to Disneyland?
Someone knocked on her door, and since it could only be Walker, she didn’t open it. He knocked again. “Callie?” He thumped a hand on the door. “I know you can hear me. Please don’t quit. It’ll be fine.”
Nothing felt fine to her. “Go away.”
“Open the door please.”
She sucked back her brewing tears and yanked it open.
“Your decision affects a lot of people, you know.” He frowned at her like she was a cockroach.
“Hey, thanks. I wasn’t aware of that.” She didn’t need a reminder. What she needed was a friend. And what she wanted was to be held.
Where was the brake peddle? Her life was spinning out of control. Exhaustion, exasperation, and a medical-grade emotional hangover brought on a sudden crushing headache. Covering her eyes with a hand, she rubbed away the percolating tears.
“Callie?”
“What?” she said without looking up.
“Don’t quit. We’ll figure out how to make this work somehow. We don’t have much longer to go.”
Wrong. They had an incredibly long way to go.
But despite the distance, an infinitesimal amount of hope remained that once they got back on the road, everything would return to normal. Not that she had a clue what normal was.
Also, she didn’t have a fucking choice. So in a voice so low a dog couldn’t hear it, she said, “Okay.”
“Can you be ready in twenty?”
She nodded and he left. Not once had he smiled, touched her, or called her Bluebell.
Somehow, she’d have to motivational poster her way through the rest of the trip—put on a happy face, grin and bear it, walk the talk, take the ‘I’ out of team, dream big, be bold—and most of all, she’d have to hang in there, kitty.
Chapter Nineteen
Pinin’
Weeki Wachee, Florida
“And if my heart be scarred and burned, the safer, I for all I learned.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Flume, Kai, “Never Be Like You (feat . Kai)
Overnight, Callie had traded in her normal personality—the perfect blend of sweet and sarcastic, earthy and whimsical, fiery and chill—and replaced it with a placating robot.
She flat out refused to talk about what happened. She didn’t joke or talk or fight or look at him. She didn’t care what they listened to, where they went, or what they ate.
Most of all, she didn’t care about him.
Callie’s clone kept her eyes firmly on the road and drove like she was in a hurry to get to heaven. In record time, they arrived at the lake and made their way to the mermaid show.
They sat in front of a giant aquarium and didn’t say a word to each other. Red lights shined down on the water, coloring it like blood. Fiberglass clamshells opened and closed, and a rubber octopus missing a tentacle flapped in the current.
From the corner of his eye, he stole a glance. She sat as far away as she could without moving seats. He bet if he touched her, she’d recoil.
Cheesy music blared out, and an announcer introduced the show. A mermaid with a flashy orange tail floated over to the window.
Bubbles floated around her head as she sucked oxygen from a tube. She smiled an underwater freaky smile and blew a kiss. He and Callie turned around looking for the recipient, but there was no one there. Either the mermaid was a lesbian, or the kiss was meant for him.
What the hell was wrong with that chick? Didn’t she see the woman sitting next to him? He glanced at his coworker. It was more than a little obvious she wanted nothing to do with him. She probably thought Callie was his sister.
More fishy bitches glided over and blew bubbly kisses.
“Guess if you have big tits and don’t want to work at a strip bar, this place is the next best thing,” Callie said with a biting tone.
The catty remark surprised him. Was she jealous? If she was, maybe she still cared. Excitement fluttered in his belly as three more mermaids swam over to the glass and waved. Time to poke the bear.
He widened his eyes and blew back a kiss. “Holy mackerel! All the sudden I feel like fishing.” Every one of them could drown for all he cared. The tiny blue sparkle fish next to him was the only one he wanted.
The mermaids sailed past and he whistled. “That woman’s got some tail on her.”
Callie jumped up so fast it startled him. “I’m bored,” she said, not sounding bored at all. “I’ll meet you outside when this”—she waved between him and the window—“is over.” And with that, she spun on her heel and stormed off.
“Dammit.” He kicked the metal railing and busted his toe. “Fuck!”
Someone gasped in the audience. “Shame on you!” A few rows back, a woman with more chins than a Chinese phonebook glared at him.
He stood, doffed a pretend hat, said, “Have a nice fucking day, ma’am,” and limped his way to the exit.
In only fifteen minutes, he’d managed to maim himself, piss off Callie even more, make eyes with a mermaid, and shout an f-bomb in front of an old bible-beating lady. The way things were headed, he might as well pour gasoline all over himself and strike a match.
Crystal Springs, Florida
“It is more important to click with people than click the shutter.”—Alfred Eisenstaedt
Soundtrack: Silversun Pickups, “The Wild Kind”
Walker slinked back to the camper with a sore toe and his tail between his legs. Callie didn’t seem the slightest bit upset about the mermaid show. “It’s your turn to choose the soundtrack,” she chirped.
Stiff as a mannequin, he sat in the passenger seat. “I don’t care. Pick whatever you want.” Something angry, he hoped.
Instead, she chose nothing, and they drove in silence all the way to the manatee refuge, where she insisted they try paddle-boarding.
After they parked and rented the boards, Callie changed into her pink bikini.
“You’re wearing that?” he said.
“Is that a problem?”
“What if it falls off?”
She dismissed him with a wave.
Along with his toe, his head began to throb. Why the hell did he make her buy that damned suit? He strapped on his waterproof camera and hurled his board into the water like a javelin.
Callie lifted a smug cheek and shook her head. Then they set off down the peaceful river on their most irritating adventure yet.
Shadows of their boards followed them under the shallow transparent waters, giving the impression that they were gliding on green glass. Schools of yellow and blue fish darted past, and the damp scent of peat hung in the heavy humid air. Trees arched over the river in an emerald canopy, and egrets called to each other with their sneezing voices.
It was beautiful. It was horrible.
All he could think about was pushing aside that scrap of pink she was wearing and plunging into her slick depths.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you having any fun?” She lifted her sunglasses and studied him. Her eyes absorbed the aquamarine water and took his breath away. New Pantone color: Take-My-Breath-Away Blue.
Hell, no. “I’m fine.” Again, he wasn’t.
“Why are you scowling?”
“Didn’t realize I was.” He carved an oar through the water and paddled ahead.
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With her out of sight, the scenery finally grabbed his attention. Just as he focused his camera on a blue heron, she coasted into view. Lying on the board with her eyes closed, she crossed a patch of sunlight and lifted her chin to embrace the warmth.
Beep!
She flinched and covered her face. “Stop! I’m not in the mood—” Mid-complaint, she crashed into the water.
A moment later she emerged, huffing and puffing. “A manatee knocked me over. Did you see it? There!”
Underneath, a moss-covered boulder floated in a circle. The creature poked up its head and questioned him with peephole eyes. Silently, he spoke to it. I’m lost, friend. What do I do? How do I fix this?
As if the animal understood every word, it moved across the river—drowsy and sloth-like—and hit her board again.
She surfaced, sputtering and out-of-breath. “It pushed me.”
A dozen more manatees sailed over. He aimed his lens at them and went barreling face first in the river. When he came up for air, she broke out into a riot of laughter. The sound made him sick.
Another bulbous gray head surfaced. Suspended in the room temperature springs, he stilled and regarded the creature. Suddenly, he felt like the biggest jackass in the world for not appreciating the beauty of the place.
Just then, another manatee sent Callie tits over tail into the springs. “Fucking assholes,” she spat. “Oh, the manatees are sweet and docile. They never attack humans. Bullshit.”
Damn, it was good to hear that smart mouth. “They’re just giving you a little love nudge, is all.”
She raised her oar like a spear. “They’re after my blood. Where’d they go?”
“Pretty sure you’d get thrown in federal prison for that, Miss Manatee Whisperer.”
“There they are!” She flipped them off. “Bye, you bunch of lard-assed bastards. No wonder you’re endangered!” Tickled by her own brand of silliness, she floated on her back and giggled.
The water turned scorching hot. She didn’t even seem fazed by their break-up. Clearly, she didn’t give a damn about him. Screw her for using him and acting all la-di-da about it.
“Callie the hater,” he said through clenched teeth, “hates everything and everyone, even the gentle manatees.”
The joy melted off her face. That had to be water rolling down her cheeks, not tears. She was too heartless to feel anything.
She scrambled on her board and took off down the river without him.
For twenty minutes, he stayed put. They needed space. Or at least he did.
An hour later, he met her back at the RV. By then, he could tell she’d built up a wall of hate. He could see it in her stony expression and wooden stance, and by the way she chucked the keys at his face.
For hours he drove, gripping the steering wheel until his shoulders hurt. Once he reached the panhandle, he parked at a trashy campsite and bolted to the beach. He swam for an hour and a half, and when he returned, she was gone, and there was a note in her place.
Be back later. — C
Later turned out to be one a.m. When she tiptoed back to her bunk, he was wide-awake and shaking with anger. He’d spent the last seven hours thinking something awful had happened.
Or worse, that she’d quit the trip.
Chapter Twenty
Drownin’
“When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.”—Ansel Adams
Soundtrack: Glass Animals, “Gooey”
Walker spied on Callie through the camper window. Wearing headphones and her tiny bikini, she danced on the beach, shaking her tight butt in the sun.
Neck and dick now painfully stiff, he hightailed it to the shower and pumped gas at the self-service station. Five minutes later, he emerged, feeling no more relieved than before.
As he toweled off in the bathroom, Callie hummed and banged pots in the kitchen.
A god-awful yearning blocked the back of his throat. He dropped the towel and pressed his hands on the sink. Breakfast was their time. The time when they collaborated on ideas, talked about their day, and shared a meal. Now it was just something he had to endure.
Even though she lived with him, he missed her like crazy. He craved her witty conversation, wild laugh, and goofball humor. He wanted his Bluebell back.
In the mirror, he saw a bedraggled Walker, a man who hadn’t shaved in days. It felt like he’d been eaten by a wolf and shit out over a cliff. If he didn’t snap out of it soon, he wasn’t going to be able to work. This trip was about finding himself, not losing his damn mind.
He opened the door, and his bikini-clad coworker handed him a plate. “You made me dick pancakes?”
She laughed. Damn her laugh. “Guess they do look like penises. Peni? What the heck’s the plural for penis? Anyway, they’re supposed to be little Floridas. See, here’s the panhandle.”
A smudge of flour dusted her nose. He rubbed it off with his thumb. Her dewy lips parted, and she peered up him through lowered lashes.
Once again, longing tugged him down a dark hole. “Not hungry,” he grumbled and reached for the coffee.
Her natural smile turned crisp, and her glare warned him he’d better wear a protective cup from then on out. Was she back to normal? Maybe they could finally throw down, have it out, and talk about what happened.
But ever so calmly, she sat at the table with her food and started to eat.
He snatched the pancakes off the counter and shoveled in a bite.
“How are they?” she asked in a saccharine sweet voice.
“Great.” He threw the rest in the trash and barged up front. “We better get moving.” He started the engine and pulled out of the campground like it was on fire. Dishes crashed to the floor in back.
He didn’t care.
A while later, she parked herself in the passenger seat, wearing a shirt that said oh the hu-manatee over her son-of-a-bitching bikini bottoms. Was she out of clothes or intentionally torturing him?
He cranked up the air conditioning and angled the vents on his face.
“You okay?” she asked.
Hell, no! “I think I’m getting a fever,” he said. “Mind driving?”
She placed a hand on his forehead, checking for the heat that wasn’t there. Her squint called him a liar, but she took over the wheel anyway.
When they arrived in Pensacola, he burst from the camper and ran. Only an insane man would jog on black asphalt at noon in a hundred-degree heat.
Apparently, he fit the bill.
On the verge of collapse, he returned to the campsite an hour later, thinking he’d burned off some of the crazy. But she’d left another note telling him not to wait up, and he promptly went nuts again.
Panama City, Florida
“In youth, it was a way I had, to do my best to please, and change with every passing lad to suit his theories. But now, I know the things I know and do the things I do, and if you do not like me so, to hell my love, with you.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack Song X: Rupert Holmes, “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)”
The unfortunate part about driving alone was all the free time she had to think. And that’s exactly what she didn’t want to do—think. Over the last three months, she’d driven herself crazy thinking about Daniel, and now she was wasting time ruminating over Walker.
Surely someone had written a self-help book on how to live in a box with a resentful coworker after a brief fling that ended because another coworker fake kissed him?
Not that she actually believed it was fake, but what did it matter? It was over between them.
Living with him had become unbearable. He spent all his time working, painting, and as far away from her as possible. He had no interest in exploring anything. He hadn’t even taken any photos for the blog.
On one hand, she didn’t care. On the other, she’d do anything to be friends with him again. She believed him but didn’t trust him. She wanted him but despised him.<
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The man made her bipolar.
In two days, he hadn’t looked her in the eye once. And his conversations? One-word grunts. It wasn’t like he was trying to get a rise out of her like he’d done at the beginning of the trip. No, it was more like he found her disgusting.
After Daniel, she was exceedingly familiar with that treatment. And she reacted to Walker the same way she had to him. She steered clear, didn’t engage, and tried to keep the peace.
Giving him the space he so obviously demanded, she went out every night, ate at restaurants, and watched local bands play. One day, she rented a bicycle and peddled around the beach. Another day, she went deep-sea fishing. The locals kept her entertained and also kept her from feeling so lonely.
The rest of the time, she focused on something other than a relationship for once—her writing.
Fuck men. She had another love.
The Florida panhandle provided a wealth of inspiration too. Everything was so wonderfully tacky and weird. Retirees in matching neon green outfits, a kid with a chocolate mustache screaming at his dad, prison tattoos on a smiley grocery clerk—they all became fodder for her writing.
On the way back to the campground that afternoon, she passed a giant mechanical wizard head attached to a store. It winked and laughed and summoned her inside. What the hell did they sell in there? Magic? Maybe they had a potion to change Walker back to himself.
Turned out, they sold nothing but crapola. In one shopping trip, she’d increased the surplus of China’s GNP by tenfold.
That night, she decorated the campsite with the crap from the store and tried one last time to drag Walker out of his funk.
She perched the pink flamingo in the sand and draped twinkling palm tree lights around the awning.
The pornographic towels were spread out on the ground like a picnic blanket. One featured a naked man sporting a two-foot schlong, and the other displayed a naked woman with giant tits and puffy purple pubes between her legs. They were so fantastic she’d purchased a set for her sister too.
Road-Tripped Page 18
