by Anthology
He clenches his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest. “If that’s the way you feel about it.”
I feel like I’m being stabbed in the chest. I feel hollow, like I’ve lost a chance I never knew I’d have again. I feel like raging at him, screaming, crying. I feel like leaving. Right now.
“How about—” The tremble in my voice disgusts me. I wanted to be stronger than this. “Could I just have a ride home? I think the storm is over, but my car—”
“Fine. Great. Get your stuff.”
I move woodenly toward the kitchen counter, then go past it and to the guest room where my coat and hat lie pathetically on the floor, and gather them up in my arms. My phone is heavy in one of the jacket pockets. It’s all I brought with me. I don’t care about the groceries anymore.
When I get back out to the kitchen, Dawson is standing by the door, his jacket on, keys in hand, eyes empty.
“Let’s go.”
Chapter 12
Dawson
India’s car is still in the ditch, just like I thought it would be. Trey, the only guy I know who does towing around here, is an asshole who doesn’t show up half the time. She might have better luck today, when the plows have been out for several hours and it’s not such a bitch to get things back on the road.
She stares out the window on the drive back to her parents’ house. I assume that’s where we’re going, and she doesn’t correct me when I start heading in that direction. She just locks her eyes on the snowbanks outside.
India swallows hard, over and over again, and my jaw is clenched so tight it hurts.
All of this is just pointless.
It’s just too close to that shake of her head ten years ago. The way she dismissed me without a second thought. The way it was all just pointless, so pointless, otherwise she would have been with me, would have admitted that what we had together was too precious to just jettison because her parents didn’t like my tattoos.
Words boil up in my chest, but I can’t force myself to speak. I can’t do anything but drive.
It takes three times as long as it usually would. The plows have been running, yeah, but they’ve also compacted the snow so it’s nothing now but a slippery surface, and the absolute last fucking thing in the world that we need right now is for the fucking Jeep to go off the road. I don’t know if we’d survive being trapped together.
My stomach churns. Last night was so fucking perfect. I’ve been with a few women over the years, and none have ever come close to what I had with India. That’s the bitch of this. She comes around one more time, just to let me taste what I want, and then yanks it away. Because it’s pointless.
Pointless, pointless, pointless. The word echoes in my mind.
I can’t fucking wait to get to her parents’ house so that she can get out of my car.
At the same time, my stomach is coiled up in knots thinking about the moment when she gets out of my car and I never fucking see her again.
I don’t know which is worse, but the closer we get, the more my muscles tense until I’m holding the wheel so hard that one wrong move and I could rip it right off.
India’s shoulders are shaking when I pull up to the curb outside her parents’ house. They’ve redone the siding, but it’s almost the same color. Practically nothing has changed.
The only thing that’s different is that India doesn’t live here anymore, and she never will again.
This is our last shot.
I see her steel herself, and when she turns back to me her eyes are red but dry.
“Thanks for the ride home, Dawson.” Her voice is raw, aching, and I want to take her face in my hands and kiss her until there’s none of that pain left. But I can’t. I can’t touch her. If I do, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
“You’re welcome.”
There’s so much more I want to say. Her eyes bore into mine, but every second that the silence lasts, the more the words die in my throat.
I’m sorry for that bullshit before. Last night was incredible. Please, I just want to hold your hand and talk to you about every single damn thing that’s happened in your life since the day we stopped talking.
India gives a little nod, like she’s waited long enough, and then she opens the passenger door.
My heart hammers painfully against my rib cage as she steps out into the snow.
She stands for one more lingering moment with her hand on the door, looking in at me.
She opens her mouth, then closes those pretty lips.
And then she closes the door.
My body wrenches to the left. I want to go after her, but something keeps me pinned in the car, my eyes glued on her back as she moves up the walk to the front porch, walking faster the closer she gets to the house.
She climbs the steps two at a time, almost losing her footing on the slick surface but catching herself on the railing at the last second. I reach toward her instinctively, but she’s far as fuck away and I have nothing to do with her anymore.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
She slips inside without a backward glance.
The silence inside the car is so loud that it pulses in my ears.
I reach forward and turn on the radio, cranking the volume of whatever shitty pop station this is, and then, though my chest is so tight I’m probably having a fucking heart attack, I put the Jeep into gear and pull back into the road.
The house recedes in the rearview mirror, and I’m choking on my own sadness. Once again, the fact of my existence has fucked things up for me. Why would I have ever thought this was some kind of a gift? Last night seems like a million goddamn miles away already.
The radio abruptly switches gears.
I’ll be home for Christmas…
I’ll never be fucking home again, now that India has walked away from me again.
No—now that I’ve chased her out of my damn life, like some kind of cowardly idiot.
Merry Christmas to me.
Chapter 13
India
My parents are thrilled to see me.
“India!” my dad booms from the living room, throwing down his newspaper. “You’re still all right?”
I crack a smile for his benefit, though I know my eyes are a dead giveaway. My good ol’ Dad pretends not to notice, or maybe he really doesn’t. “If you were that worried, you could have texted me.”
He waves a hand in the air. “You’re almost thirty, daughter mine. You’d let us know if you were on your deathbed. Or the paramedics would.”
“Ha. I’m twenty-eight, by the way. That’s hardly close to thirty.”
“What happened with the car? Was it drivable?”
“No.” I cut my eyes to the floor, thinking of how close their car is to Dawson’s house. How am I ever going to bear going back for it? “Well, it’s probably drivable. It’s just still in the ditch.”
“Still in the ditch?” My dad lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, call up the towing company. Let’s go pick it up.”
“India, are you all right?” My mom bustles in from the kitchen, bringing the scent of warm sugar cookies with her. Her forehead is pinched with worry.
“Yes, Mom, obviously.”
“But where did you stay? What friend was this?”
Right. I told them that I was with a friend for the night.
I square my shoulders. “Actually, it was Dawson Flint.”
“Dawson Flint!” my dad says, slapping his hand down on his knee. “That’s the young man who opened up that bar on the other side of town. He was always very energetic, wasn’t he?”
I stare at my dad with narrowed eyes. “Energetic?”
“Oh, he was all over town when you two were in school together. We always heard about him from the other parents. He really made something of himself.” My dad cocks his head to the side. “You know, he’s not like a lot of the others from your year. You all moved away for careers. He put down roots here.”
�
��I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“What do you mean?”
I take in a big breath and lean toward my dad, scanning his face for any hint that this is a joke.
“Are you—are you screwing with me?”
“Why would you think that, India?”
“You always liked dad jokes. Is this one of those times where you’re screwing with me and I’m taking forever to catch on?” I whip around to where my mother stands, looking between the two of us with a bewildered expression. “Is he screwing with me?”
“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about either.”
“You sat me down.” My dad continues to stare at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “You sat me down and told me that I’d never amount to anything if I stayed with him.”
My dad bursts out into laughter, big fat peals of it that fill up the entire living room. “I was definitely a prick.”
“Holy shit, Dad.” I put my hands to the sides of my head. “You’re only now realizing this?”
His face sobers. “No, India. Of course I’ve regretted some of the things I said to you.” The corners of his lips turn down. “I judged that young man by his cover because I was afraid for you. I wanted you to go to college and have all the experiences you’d worked so hard to get. How could I have known what he’d become?”
“I loved him.”
“I know. That’s why I was such an asshole. It was obvious, Indie. Clear as day.”
“He never talked to me again after—after all that with Eric Powell.”
“Another nice young man. He’s done quite—”
“Eric Powel was a dick, Dad. He treated everyone around him like shit. Dawson treated me like a princess.”
“Looks like he still does. Did he have a guest bedroom?”
My cheeks go painfully hot. “Yeah, Dad. He had a guest bedroom. I’m glad you’re worried about that, now that I’m almost thirty.”
“At least you two had a chance to talk things through. I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you back then, but you’ve both come out the other side better off for it.” He stands up and casts around for his cell phone. “Now. Let’s go take care of that car!”
He bustles off into the kitchen to get the number for the towing company, and I stand frozen in the living room, my mom watching me.
“God,” I whisper under my breath.
“So—how was he, India?” she says, her voice soft.
“He’s—” I swallow the lump in my throat. “He’s great, Mom. He’s…he’s really grown up over the years.” I can’t bring myself to tell her that I want him, right now, so badly that my entire body is one giant aching bruise.
It was a mistake to let him drive away without telling him that I still love him. That I want to give this a real shot.
That I don’t give a shit what my dad thought ten years ago.
That I’m finally over it.
That I’ve seen what there is to see outside of this town, and nothing came close to him. Not a single person.
“Get your coat, India!” calls my dad from the kitchen.
“I’m already wearing it.”
My heart starts to pound. We’re driving back to Dawson’s place. If he’s there, I’m going to go up to the door. I’m going to bang on it with my fists until he lets me in.
I’m not going to let him slip through my fingers again.
Chapter 14
Dawson
It’s a mistake to stop at the little mom-and-pop gas station on the way back to my house and I know it, but I go anyway. I want a damn coffee, pitch black and strong, and that’s where they make it best. That’s where they make it easiest to get to, anyway, if you don’t want to go into one of those damn shops with the chatty baristas. I don’t want to talk about my day.
But Mrs. Owens is in a chatty mood today, and she bustles right around from behind the counter to give me the once over.
“Merry Christmas, Dawson.” Her voice is tremulous, and are those tears in her eyes?
“Uh, thanks, Mrs. Owens. Merry Christmas.” I stick my hands in my pockets. Stepping around her to go to the coffee station would be a dick move, but I’m on the verge.
“Dawson, is something on your mind?”
The store is deserted, which is probably why she’s asking me this right now. And fuck, too much is on my mind to even begin to deal with, but it all boils down to one thing: India, and what a wreck I’ve made of my life if I never see her again.
Now that I’ll never see her again.
At least, I hope I never see her again because I think my heart would tear out of my chest and die a tortured death on the ground if I had to look into her eyes one more time.
“Not a thing. Just getting ready for the holidays.”
“How’s your father doing?”
“Just fine.”
Just fine—he misses my mother like an open wound, but he’ll never admit it as long as he lives. Tomorrow he’ll have some of his old single buddies over to his house to spend Christmas. He’s a damn good cook, and it keeps both of us from being alone.
An image of sitting at my dad’s house, my arm wrapped around India, hits me like a missile to the chest, and my hand floats up to pat at my ribcage.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I give Mrs. Owens as much of a grin as I can manage. “Do you ever desperately need coffee?”
She smiles back, but she’s not convinced. “I know the feeling.” Then she steps out of my way.
I go through the ritual of filling the cup, adding a couple packets of sugar, snugging on the plastic cap, but at the counter she waves me away. “It’s on the house.”
“Thanks.”
“You know—” I’m halfway back to the door, but I stop and turn back. “Dawson, a young man like you—” Mrs. Owens’ face goes red, but she soldiers on. “You shouldn’t spend the holidays alone. I hope—I hope you find a nice girl who you can count on.”
“I hope so, too,” I say, and then I give her a jaunty little salute and head back out into the bitter cold.
A nice girl I can count on.
I probably could have counted on India—the India of now, not the eighteen-year-old who wanted her father’s approval. But that ship has sailed.
The house is deadly silent when I walk in the front door, but I can’t bear to listen to any music. I settle for the TV.
I sink into the couch with my coffee, ignoring the gnawing emptiness in the pit of my stomach. This is going to be a long fucking day since I decided not to open the bar—it’s enough to deal with drunks on all the other holidays during the year—but somehow this is worse, now that India’s gone.
The coffee cup is empty before I realize I’ve been drinking it, and I’m three episodes in to some shitty cooking show on Netflix without having taken in a single detail. My stomach growls. I could get up and cook, but then I’d have to face the plates in the sink from last night. India’s plate.
Instead, I choose the laziest fucking option.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial B. C. Pizza. I don’t know what the hell those initials stand for, but they make damn good pizza and they’re open on Christmas Eve. I order two of them because who the hell knows when I’ll feel like getting up from this couch again?
Phone tossed into the cushions somewhere, I go back to trying to focus on the fucking cooking show, then abandon it after another half episode, choosing something at random from the suggestions list. It should only be another twenty minutes or so until the pizza shows up, and then I’ll stuff myself while I watch…
It doesn’t matter what I watch. All I can see is India. All I can think about is India.
My hand goes to my sweatshirt pocket where my car keys weigh down the fabric, but what am I going to do? Drive back to her house and knock on her door? Not a fucking chance. She’ll only tell me it’s not going to work, that it was never going to work, and to leave her alone on Christmas Eve. And the last people I want to
see are her parents. No fucking way.
But the way she wrapped herself around me last night, the way her lips felt against my skin, the way we fit together so fucking perfectly…
I get lost in it.
I absolutely get lost in it.
When the knock on the door comes, it startles the hell out of me.
Chapter 15
India
The tow truck guy is waiting by my parents’ car, hauled out on to the shoulder, when we get there. There’s a little dent up front, but otherwise it seems like the snow cushioned the blow. My dad steps out and pays him, and I unlock the doors and reach in for the ice scraper, going to work on the front windows. My dad pulls his own out of the back of his car and helps me. It takes a couple of minutes at most. Then he scans the car for any signs of damage and gives me a quick hug.
“See you back home?”
“I’ll meet you there. There’s—something I need to do first.”
My dad gives me a sly grin and heads back toward his car.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
His eyes are wide, waiting.
“Dawson’s a good guy.”
He nods, like he’s spent a long time considering this. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “You’ve always been a good judge of character.” He gives me one last smile. “See you at home, honey.”
Then he slides into the driver’s seat, turns on his blinker, and pulls out onto the empty road.
My heart thuds loudly in my ears, and I take in a deep breath, letting it out. I can’t see from here if Dawson’s car is in the driveway. But what the hell. I’m going to go anyway.
I get behind the wheel and scan the road behind me, waiting way too long to make sure it’s clear, then I pull a U-turn and steer the car down Dawson’s driveway.
As soon as I turn in, I see his car.
He’s home.
My throat goes tight. It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways, but what does that matter when you’ve spent ten years apart only to discover that what you were missing was waiting here all along?
