Field-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  I chuckle. “You’re one of a kind, man. Best boss I’ve ever had.”

  “Good. You’re talking in the past tense.” He ushers me to the door. “All right, get out of here. I hate goodbyes. They make me tear up.” He doesn’t look the slightest bit emotional.

  A little later, everyone piles in the van with Malcolm for the airport.

  My body is twitching for a release, so I convince Charlie to go snowboarding.

  On the mountain, it’s sunny and sixty-five degrees. Colorado is tempting me back home with this gorgeous weather.

  When we’re on the chairlift, swinging high above the earth, Charlie asks, “What now?”

  I don’t answer her. Instead, I ride to the top in silence then jump off and race down the slopes.

  Fear chases me, but it can’t keep up. Neither can Charlie.

  Endorphins pump through me. The feeling is like endless laughter.

  I need this in my life. All of this. The challenge. The thrill. I can’t give this up again. I can’t give her up again.

  At the bottom, she arrives ten minutes after me, panting.

  “Did you time yourself? I bet that was fast enough to qualify for the Olympics.” A ray of sun hits her face just right and lights up her smile.

  “Let’s do this,” I say. “You and me? Let’s do this.”

  She tackles me to the ground.

  We laugh and hold onto each other. “I love you!” I shout.

  “And I love you!” she shouts.

  The world mills around us, happy conversation buzzing, bright cheeks glowing, people stumbling through the snow in heavy boots. But we don’t move, because it’s just she and I in this mad world and no one else.

  And this moment? I let it sink deep into my long-term memory bank, to take out when we’re old and riding around on scooters, probably racing each other around the grocery store aisles.

  THAT AFTERNOON, we make love, and then we hold hands in bed and regard the intense blue through the skylight and start to make plans. We come up with these grand schemes.

  “Let’s go to Tibet,” I say.

  “I want to go fishing in Alaska and then see the northern lights.”

  “I want to record world music.”

  “Let’s sit in cafes and talk about life with strangers.”

  We keep going like this, not letting the looming rain clouds dissolve our dreams. Money, our jobs, her dogs, our lives—we don’t talk about those things.

  I lie on my side and caress her naked splendor.

  When she gets up to go to the bathroom, I see it—the bottle of medication on her nightstand. I pick it up and read the label.

  She comes out a minute later and stops in her tracks.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “I…uh.” She sits on the bed with her back facing me. “I’ve been depressed.”

  This jars me, but I don’t let her see that. “Why? Because of the accident?”

  “I don’t know. I just am.” Her voice is shaky.

  “Am? You’re still depressed?”

  She turns to me. “I’m better. With you. But I can’t just stop taking it.”

  I turn and stare out the skylight.

  “I’m not perfect, Elliott,” she says. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes over the years. Ideally this stuff would come up over time. But we haven’t really had a chance to date.”

  “What else do I need to know?”

  She sucks in a breath and then lets it out all at once. “I may or may not be a sex addict.”

  A laugh surges up from deep in my belly. “I can live with that.”

  “I’m serious. I’m not proud of it. I’ve been with a lot of men.” Her knuckles are white from gripping the blanket.

  “My roster is pretty lengthy as well,” I say. “Happens when you’ve spent most of your life single.”

  This doesn’t seem to cheer her up. “I just want you to know I’m not going to cheat on you.”

  My heart is racing. I believe her. And that scares me. “Okay.”

  And then, bam! An explosion. A knock on the door.

  We don’t move.

  “Charlotte? It’s Alan. Burt said you were up here. I thought with the DUI, you might need a ride home.”

  Bliss drains from my body like a slow leak in a balloon.

  She jumps up from the bed and puts on her robe.

  “Don’t answer that door.”

  She ignores me. “I’ll tell him to wait for me downstairs. I need to put an end to this.”

  “No, I’ll tell him.” I grab the blanket off the bed, wrap it around my waist, and swing open the door. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

  His mouth drops open then shuts tight. “You’re still here.”

  I point down the hall. “Go downstairs, you fucking creep, before I beat your ass.”

  Charlie calls out behind me. “Alan, just go. I’ll be down in a minute. We need to talk.”

  I slam the door in his face and don’t turn around.

  “I got a DUI a couple of months ago,” she says.

  I cringe like I just received a blow to the head.

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” she says. “I just made a bad happy hour decision. Nobody got hurt. I told you, I’m not perfect.”

  I rest my forehead against the door. “Fuck, Charlie. What else are you going to spring on me?”

  “Look at me.”

  I turn and face her. I’ve never seen her look so fragile.

  “Let me get rid of Alan first,” she says. “Then we can finish our talk.” She dresses in a hurry and leaves me in her room.

  Her dogs stare at me, panting, waiting for me to make a move.

  “I’m too attached,” I say to them.

  I give her twenty minutes. Then I get up and pack my things.

  When I’m done, I head downstairs and wait. The grandfather clock ticks in the den, and when the second hand reaches the hour, it gongs six times.

  Alan comes out of the game room without her. There’s defiance on his face.

  My pulse kicks up.

  He stops and stands in front of me. “Cocky son of a bitch. Think you’ve won?” He grits his teeth and spits out more venom. “You have any idea how many men that whore has slept with? Besides you and me? Hundreds. And that’s just since I’ve known her. I’ve done everything for that woman. I built her fucking business. And how does she repay me? With two weeks notice.” He scoffs. “With her, you can’t win. You’ll end up losing, just like me.”

  Stomp! Stomp! Slam. He leaves like a violent tornado, annihilating everything in his path.

  A minute later, she comes out and glances down at my backpack. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to go.”

  Her spirit seems to wither. “Is this about Alan? I told him everything. I gave him two weeks. Did he tell you? What happened? Is he still here? What did he say to you? Why are you doing this? Everything is fine. It’s over. Talk to me—”

  “This is about me.” My voice is wobbly, unsure. “I need time. To think. By myself. This is too much.”

  Her lips tremble and her eyes fill with tears. “You’re panicking.”

  I hang my head. “You’re like an earthquake, Charlie. Just when I think I know you, you shift and change. Then I have to start all over and learn a new route. It’s what I love about you, but it’s also what scares me the most.”

  “You think I’m not capable of stability? I’ve run a successful business for the last five years.”

  “No, that’s not it. This isn’t about you. It’s about me.”

  She scoffs.

  I grab her chin. “I’m not like you. I can’t just make a spur of the moment decision. I need time to adjust. I need time to breathe. Let me do this. Please, give me some time, Chicken.”

  She bursts into tears. “You’re the fucking chicken, not me.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Charlie Loves Eli

  December 2005

  I WAS HANGING out with Mom and Dad today, an
d they asked me when I thought that Loser was going to propose. I told them I thought he’d probably do it after the Olympics. We have plenty of time. The rest of our lives.

  FIFTY

  Charlie Survives A Disaster

  Eli’s Mixtape: The Flaming Lips, “Do You Realize??”

  ON THE DAY my family died, Elliott left me at the apartment to go identify their bodies.

  The only thing I could think to do was take a hot bath. It seems so absurd now, but when I got that call from the police, it was like all the blood drained out of my body. I couldn’t get warm enough. Scalding water seemed like the only cure.

  When he came back, I took one look at his face and crumpled to the floor.

  I don’t ever want to see that look again.

  He picked me up off the floor and tucked me in bed and didn’t let go of me for the rest of the night. It was his arms that kept me together. If he wasn’t there, I would have broken into a million tiny pieces.

  The next week went by—the funeral, the unscented smell of wreaths, the casseroles, the if-there’s-anything-we-can-do’s—and he was by my side the entire time.

  “I’ll be okay,” I remember thinking. “As long as he’s here, I’ll be fine.”

  Once the prayers and the dumb poetry and the pitiful looks disappeared, so did he.

  I waited and waited and waited and let life pile up around me.

  A week later, I took another hot bath. Then I drank a fifth of vodka and went out and danced with my old college roommate.

  That night, I acted like nothing happened, because to me, nothing had happened. I’d already switched off the part of my brain that was willing to accept reality.

  He came back the next morning and found me in bed with someone else.

  I was in so much pain when he walked in, I completely forgot about the guy I picked up that night.

  The way he stared through me—it was like I was a ghost.

  It wasn’t until six months later that I became aware of my loss. Before that, I’d been performing these rote tasks every day—getting out of bed, getting dressed, showering, walking to school—I don’t know how I did it.

  It was a trivial thing that triggered it. My license plate renewal arrived in the mail. Dad always handled that stuff for me.

  Without even thinking, I called the house for him. The answering machine came on. “You’ve reached the Sullivans. We’re not here. Please leave a message.”

  We’re not here.

  I didn’t get out of bed for a month.

  The phrase I hate most is “life goes on.” For the last ten years, everyone’s life has gone on but mine.

  And now, after my world just started to spin again, it stops.

  It’s not fair. It’s my turn for a goddamned happy ending.

  I jam my palms against my eye sockets, hard enough to push my eyeballs to the back of my head.

  I have to let him go. He needs me to let him go. That’s the only way he’ll come back.

  Why can’t I get past the feeling that this is it?

  He crushes me in a hug that breaks my bones and leaves me limp. “I’ll call you when I land.”

  “I’m not waiting, Elliott. Not this time. It’s time to start living again. And if I have to, I’ll do it without you.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Eli Gets His Head Out Of His Ass

  Survival Tip: Before abandoning camp, leave signs for the rescue party that you’ve been there and have moved on.

  Eli’s Mixtape: Black Lips, “Can’t Hold On”

  IN THE VAN on the way to Denver, Burt glares at me in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t turn on the radio. There’s no chit-chat, no ass chewing, no nothing.

  I keep waiting for him to light into me. But he never does.

  So I stare out the window at the passing scenery and ask myself the same question over and over. What the fuck am I doing?

  When we get to the airport, instead of dropping me off, he parks and gets out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You’ve got a couple hours.” He jangles his keys and stuffs them in his pocket. “Might as well have a burger and a beer while I’m here. It’s a long drive back.”

  “You don’t have a ticket. How will you get past security?”

  “I’ll buy one.”

  I drop my bags on the curb. “Just say what you’ve got to say, Burt.”

  “Step aside, Beaver, I’m getting me a beer.”

  I check in and don’t bother to ask where Burt plans on not going with his ticket.

  He goes through security with me, gets his pocketknife taken away, acts like it’s no big deal, and then asks me if I’m okay with watching the Broncos game.

  I don’t bother to answer him. I want him to go away. This intimidation strategy will not work.

  We end up in a sports bar not too far from my gate. He orders a plate of fried jalapeño poppers, a well-done burger, and a beer. He finishes the beer and the burger, wipes his mouth, picks his teeth with a toothpick, and then speaks to me while focused on the football game.

  “Alan’s been after her for a while. Charlotte never seemed interested, so Mother Art never bothered to interfere. Never cared for him much.”

  I huff. “I’m guessing you don’t like me much either.”

  “I’m still formulating an opinion. I will say this, though, you keep a level head.”

  “A level head,” I repeat. This guy needs help. I need help.

  “I was a drill sergeant in the Marines.”

  “Gee, you’re kidding. I never would have guessed.”

  “Met Charlie’s dad and Art over in Vietnam. Used to train young boys to die. But that’s another story.” He grabs a popper off the plate and chews it for an insufferably long time.

  “In a lot of ways,” he continues, “boot camp’s like what you see in the movies. The yelling. The bullying. That’s by design. It’s about creating a hostile environment and teaching soldiers not to react to it.”

  “Is this about the name calling?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “You never got angry.”

  “The hell I didn’t.”

  “Well, you didn’t show it. Not once did you lose your cool.”

  “I’m losing my shit right now.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  I feel the need to defend myself. “Burt, she’s been back in my life for less than two weeks. And it’s been insanity every single second—avalanches, dog stranglings, Alan stalkings, Sabrina strippings—it’s a lot.”

  “Yeah, well, Art cooked this whole thing up. Blame him, not me.”

  Slowly, I set down my beer. “What did you just say?”

  “He saw your picture in Rolling Stone. You were at an advertising award show with your rock star buddy, El Love, or whatever his name is.”

  “I was in Rolling Stone?”

  “The article was about your friend, but you were in the picture.” He burps and pounds his chest. “When Charlotte’s family died, and you left, she sort of went into a coma. All she did was talk about you. Your name was drilled into our heads. We got so sick of hearing about you. When we saw your name, it just clicked.”

  I’m still stuck on the previous part. “You made this whole thing up? You brought us out here because you thought it would be cute to get us back together?”

  “Not entirely. We really were looking for an agency. Charlie wants to sell her business, and we’re not crazy about Grayson. We tried to buy her out, but she’s too stubborn, told us she’s not our orphan charity case. Truth is, her team is better suited for the work. But I like Skip a lot. He reminds me of a buddy I had in ‘Nam. Real sarcastic like him. Anyway, we’ve got some side ventures we’re floating by Skip. That ought to keep him from closing his doors for a while.”

  Burt’s not picking up on my disgust. “You know what? You guys are assholes.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But did you have fun?”

  “What?”

  “Did you have fun? Everyone else did. Y
ou guys were like a bunch of kids out there. Hell, it was worth it, messing with you, just to see Charlie come back to life. She’s been walking around for ten years with that crazy fake smile.”

  “I hate that smile.”

  “She’s smiling for real now. Until you left.”

  I drop my forehead in my hand and squeeze. I can’t sort through this blizzard of information. It’s too hard.

  Burt slides a credit card to the bartender. “It’s not easy risking everything for love,” he says solemnly. “I get why you’re leaving. Did the same thing when I left my wife and kids for Art. He didn’t get that I needed time away from the relationship to figure things out. When I came back, he didn’t want me. I was so pissed.”

  I slump over and sigh.

  The bartender comes back, and Burt scrawls his signature on the bill. Then he unzips his jacket and slaps a gift with beaver wrapping paper on the bar.

  “I was going to give this to Charlie on Christmas, but I ended up drawing your name for the Secret Santa. Found it in her parent’s garage when Art and I cleaned it out. A little light reading for the flight home.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and then heads out. “Merry Christmas.”

  I don’t even want to know what it is. I stuff the gift in my bag and take out my phone. When I turn it on, a flurry of messages makes it vibrate non-stop.

  I search through all four hundred of them for one from Charlie. Not surprisingly, I don’t find one.

  But I do find ten calls from Elias, my old roommate. This worries me, since he never calls. He’s much more of a text-only kind of guy. I ring him, and he answers right away.

  “Puto, where have you been?” he asks.

  “Colorado.”

  “Ah! We tried to invite you over for Christmas, but you never answered. We have an announcement.”

  “You’re getting married,” I say, suddenly regretting this call.

  “Will you be my best man, dickhead?”

  I sigh. “I guess.”