by Jessi Kirby
“Yeah, it’s good. We’re good.” He shrugged, then leaned over to check the gauge again. “Damn. Shouldn’t be that high still. You better pull over.”
I did, and once we were stopped on the shoulder, I could see a thin wall of steam rising from the front and sides of the hood.
“This, though, is not good,” Rusty said, eyeing it. He swung the door open and in one quick motion pulled his shirt over his head as he got out. I looked—okay, stared this time—at him just standing there, all . . . shirtless. Then I fumbled with my seat belt, wondering how I’d been so pissed at him back at the campsite that I didn’t notice how broad his shoulders had gotten or how defined his—
Rusty ducked down and caught my eye. “You gonna turn it off now?”
“The car? Oh—yeah. I was just . . .” Checking you out? I cut the engine and sat there a second after he walked to the hood, wondering what the heck had just happened in me to make me see him that way. Rusty. Finn’s best friend. Who was now shirtless, with his sandy hair grown out just enough to look like he didn’t care, and a stomach and set of shoulders that said he did. Oh, my good lord. In one of Gina’s little pamphlets she’d brought home from the hospital, it listed all sorts of ways grief could affect a person, and it had said something about irrational thoughts, but I was pretty sure this wasn’t what it was talking about.
I got out of the car, hoping for a little relief from the blasting heater and from my momentary slip into craziness. A cool breeze would be good. Something. But the air hung still and heavy as Rusty wrapped his shirt around his hand and reached for the radiator cap.
“You’re not s’posed to—” I backed away to avoid the boiling water that was about to come bursting out. Rusty slowly turned the cap and I heard a hiss of air, but that was it. I took a step forward again. “There’s no water in there?”
He leaned over but kept his distance. “Barely. It’s leakin’ pretty fast.”
I looked both directions, up and down the highway, at nothing but shrubby desert and windswept sky. “Can we make it on the rest of that water? To your mom’s? And then fix it in time? We have to make it to that concert.” Panic rose in my throat. Despite my doubts about going, it was still the only thing I had to hold on to at the moment. “Can we?”
Rusty sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe. We can put it in, run the heater, and cross fingers it’s enough to get there.” He looked over at me. “Unless you got a better idea. Or a phone.”
“Uh . . .”
I didn’t have any better ideas. I did have a phone, but it was useless, considering I hadn’t charged it in two days. On the other hand, the thought of running that heater on high for the next thirty miles made me wanna cry. And the water—I was so thirsty all of a sudden. “Maybe we should put most of the water in but save some to drink in case we get stuck out here or something.”
Rusty thought about it a moment. “Nah. We need every spare drop in Pala. Get a good drink and the rest goes in. We’ll make it. I’ll drive.”
“What—why? You—”
“I’m fine, H. Trust me. You drive her a little hard, is all, and right now she needs to be babied.” He gave the car a pat.
I rolled my eyes. Finn used to tell me that same thing, and I never understood what he meant by “driving hard,” especially when I didn’t see any difference in the way he drove it from the way I did. But fine. We needed to get going, and I was too hot to stand there arguing. And the driver’s side was hotter on your feet anyway. I went and grabbed the jug, took a good, long gulp of unrefreshing, car-warmed water, and passed it to Rusty, who did the same. Then we both watched as he poured every last drop into the radiator and capped it.
“Here goes nothin’,” he said.
He shut the hood, and I walked to the passenger door, eager to get my feet out of my boots. The relief was immediate when I did, and I leaned back in the seat with my eyes closed, trying to spread the feeling over the rest of me. I heard Rusty walk over to the driver’s side and waited to feel the seat bump when he sat down and settled in.
Instead, I heard a zipper.
I opened one eye and turned my head just in time to see Rusty standing behind the driver’s door, pulling his jeans down. “What are you doing?” I sat up and looked around, like I shouldn’t be seeing him or like someone else might see me see him and know how instantly hot it made my cheeks. Rusty didn’t answer. He was bent over, trying to get his foot out of one of his pant legs.
“What are you doing? You are drunk. Gimme the keys.”
He finally got the one foot out, then stood on it and pulled his jeans off the other leg. Then he bunched them up and threw them in the backseat, sat down behind the wheel so hard I bounced, and looked at me like I was the ridiculous one. “I’m not drunk. It’s hotter than shit, we got a ways to go, and I’m sweatin’ balls.”
I didn’t really have a response for that.
Except to burst out laughing. And then try to compose myself while Rusty looked at me, completely straight-faced, which brought on another wave. He just sat there in his faded plaid boxers, waiting patiently for me to finish.
I sucked in a big breath of air, cleared my throat, and did my best to mirror his straight face. “So . . . you’re just gonna . . . drive in your underwear. Because it’s hot. And you’re . . . sweating balls.” I pressed my lips together and nodded like it was totally reasonable.
“Pretty much.” He turned the key, then adjusted the mirrors back to his liking. “Wouldn’t bother me if you did, too.”
I laughed again and looked out my window, far away from Rusty in his underwear. Tan, built Rusty, who was now grinning at the dare like there wasn’t a chance I’d do it.
“Oh, yeah?” I stalled, doing a quick mental check of my guts and what I had on under my clothes.
He shrugged. “It’d be fine.”
I watched him for a second, trying to see if there was any hint of anything coming from him. And then I chickened out. “Thanks. I’m good, though.” I let my eyes shift ever so slightly in his direction when he looked over his shoulder and pulled us back onto the highway.
“Suit yourself,” he said casually. He caught my eyes for a second, then grinned confidence down the road. “Just try not to stare too hard.”
14
I never wanted to take my clothes off so badly in my entire life. After three spurts of driving, with three stops in between to let the engine cool down, my tank top was so sweat soaked, I’d given up unsticking it from myself. And my cutoffs. Well. They were a lost cause, no matter how I sat. I glanced over at Rusty, who looked relaxed and relatively comfortable, like he was catching a nice breeze for his, um . . . problem.
I’d run out of things to talk about that didn’t have to do with how miserable hot I was, and decided it was probably best to keep my mouth shut anyway, because I was a little scared I might say something embarrassing. So I sat quiet, alternating between trying to figure out how to sit so that the least amount of me was touching the seat, and making a concerted effort not to look over at him in his underwear. Too much. Rusty didn’t seem to notice the craziness that was going on in my mind. He drove and watched the temperature needle like the world depended on it. Which it kinda did.
He shook his head. “Thing’s way too hot. We need more water.”
“You could pour the rest of your whiskey in there.” I meant it as a joke, but it came out sarcastic.
Rusty didn’t respond.
I bent forward and rummaged around the floor until I found the two things I was looking for—my soda cup, which now held a brown-tinged mix of melted ice and the last drops of Coke, and the plastic soda bottle from the day before, still two-thirds of the way full and hot. I held them up to Rusty. “What about these?”
He slid his eyes over and took in what I was offering, then lit up a little. “Couldn’t hurt. We still got about twenty miles, and I bet that thing’s dry again.” He slowed, and we bumped over the dirt and gravel before coming to a stop. When he cut
the engine, the Pala shuddered off, then was still. No sounds of bubbling water or steam or anything.
Rusty patted the dash. “Come on, Peaches. We only gotta make it a few more miles. Hang in there.”
“Peaches?”
He ignored me.
Normally, I would’ve given him a hard time for this. I always did with Finn whenever he started talking about the Pala like it was a girl. It was another one of those things I never got, and the couple of times I teased Finn about it, he just grinned his happy grin at me and brushed it off. Now I understood it was probably another joke between him and Rusty that I wasn’t in on, and chose to ignore it. I got out of the car, grateful for a little air.
Rusty did too, even though he was in his underwear. It was funny the first time we stopped, and every time after that, it made my cheeks rush hot all over again. By now he treated it as routine, as if it were normal to do all these things in your underwear: Get out, stretch, look over miles of desert that didn’t change, check the engine, get honked at and flashed by a car full of girls zooming by with their music blaring. None of it fazed him. Which was kind of even more attractive. Oh, god. I could barely stand myself.
I looked across the barren flatness to the mountains I hoped we’d make it to. I was sick of flat, ugly desert. I could’ve stayed in Texas to see this much brown dirt. But Finn had told me to go on an adventure, put my feet in the ocean. He’d set me down the highway with a pair of tickets and made it seem important enough to blow off orientation week and lie to Aunt Gina, not that he’d had any idea I’d do those things. I was having a hard time believing it myself. Guilt tugged at me again, heavy with the fear that I’d just used Finn’s gift as an excuse to run away. That even as I told myself I was doing this for him, it was a selfish thing. Maybe this ugly desert and broken-down car were fate’s way of telling me so. I motioned at the shrubs in front of us, wanting to change the subject in my mind. “Does Sedona look like this too?”
Rusty leaned against the passenger door, next to me. “No. It’s not like this. It’s real pretty. All red rocks and blue sky. You’ll like it.”
“And your mom won’t mind us staying?” Rusty shook his head. “And you can fix the car? Because I don’t think I have enough money—”
“We’ll get it fixed.”
“And then we’ll keep going? To California?”
“Wherever you want.”
“Rusty?”
“Yeah?” He looked at me this time, with hazel eyes that were familiar—and not—at the same time.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here.” I pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, feeling like I was teetering on the edge of some kind of moment I wasn’t sure about, so I stood up straight and steered us away from it with a grin. “Even if you do stink and your underwear needed to be replaced about two years ago.” I looked down at them pointedly this time, motioning at the hole in the seam at his hip.
A slow smile spread out across his face, into a laugh. “You’re probably right,” he said, turning to face me. He reeled his laugh back into a smile, then leaned in close and almost whispered. “But that shirt you’re sweatin’ through?” He glanced down casually, and I felt every inch his eyes passed over. “It’s pretty bad too.” He raised his eyebrows, then grabbed the sodas off the roof and headed to the hood of the car.
I looked at the sun hanging low in the sky but didn’t feel the slightest hint of coolness. Thought of getting back into the blast of the Pala’s heater. And then decided: What the hell? I did it quick so I wouldn’t chicken out again—grabbed the bottom of my tank top and pulled it over my head, surprised at the immediate relief of having it off my skin. Then I shimmied out of my shorts and threw them in the back like Rusty had done with his jeans. And I stood there in my bra and underwear, feeling on my skin the softness of the breeze, which made me happier than anything so far that day.
Rusty finished pouring out the last bit of soda into the radiator, capped it, and shut the hood. When he turned to come back, he stopped short and did a double take. Then he smiled slow, nodded once, and got in without saying anything. What did that mean? Was I being ridiculous? Oh, god, what was I thinking? I stood there, trying to collect myself and work up the nerve to get in the car, just as cool as he had. It was just underwear, just like a bathing suit. And it was only Rusty. Except that my underwear was black and lacy. And Rusty was good looking as all get-out.
He leaned over to the passenger side. “You comin’? Or you get all undressed to try and hitch your own ride?”
I took a deep breath and mustered every bit of confidence I could. Then I slid into the seat, shut the door, and looked over at Rusty like this was something I did all the time. “Nah. I think I’ll stick with you, at least for a little while.” Oh, god. Ridiculous.
He didn’t move. Just sat there looking at me, quite amused, and I knew I was in for some joke at my expense. Instead, he just shook his head, still smiling. “Shit. You.”
“What? You said it wouldn’t bother you.” No response. “It’s still hotter than hell.” Now I was getting defensive. He turned the key, and the Pala sputtered to life. “Why are you acting all weird about it?”
Rusty glanced in the side mirror, then put the car in gear and pulled us back on the highway. “I’m not. You’re . . .” He smiled like he was gonna laugh. I reached for my clothes, feeling every kind of embarrassed I possibly could.
“Oh, c’mon. Leave ’em. You’re fine.” His eyes flicked over in my general direction.
“Well, then,” I said, confidence bolstered. “Try not to stare too hard, all right?” My voice, and what it said, surprised the heck out of me.
Even Rusty seemed surprised. He laughed the kind of laugh you do when you don’t know what to say, then reached for the radio knob. “Duly noted.”
Before any kind of awkward silence could settle over us, the static gave way to one of my all-time favorites. I leaned forward and turned the volume up, got the tuning just right so it came in clear. Then I sat back, feeling the hot wind on my bare skin, and right along with Tom Petty belted out the chorus of “Free Fallin’.” And it was the perfect song for what I felt that moment.
Because in a lot of ways, I was.
15
The last of the heavy sun dipped behind red-rock mountains, splashing brilliant pink light over the clouds that streaked the sky, and I wished I could capture that moment right there, remember how perfectly peaceful it felt. We’d chugged along slowly since we put the soda in the radiator, and I’d lost my senses enough to take off my clothes. The giggly nervousness (mine) and sneaky glances (both of us), I thought, had given way to a silence between Rusty and me that was comfortable as the day finally began to cool. The twilight spread out and deepened as we drove, enough for Rusty to flick on the headlights. The beams swung around a wide curve in the road, and on the other side of it he let out a long sigh. “That’s it, right down the hill. Almost there.”
In front of us, nestled down between the silhouettes of towering cliffs, were the first twinkling lights of Sedona. A wave of relief and happiness hit me so strong I nearly started crying. “Oh my god. We really made it.” I sat up and looked out the windshield, wondering where his mom’s house was. The prospect of a home with food and a shower was just about the best thing I could imagine at the moment.
“You think your mom’ll mind if the first thing I do when we get there is take a shower?” I was almost giddy with the thought.
Rusty laughed. “She might wanna say hi first.”
“I know that.” I smacked his bare thigh before I thought about it, and he raised an eyebrow, which I chose to ignore. Then the lightness drained from me almost in an instant when I thought about seeing her and having to face the inevitable conversation about Finn. I looked over at Rusty, afraid to ask. “Does she know? About him?”
His jaw tightened when he nodded. “Yeah—” He glanced over at me, then back at the road. “She’s the one who told me.” I opened my mouth to ask w
here she’d heard, or how, or why she’d been the one to tell him, but I didn’t get a chance to pick out the right question before Rusty slowed the Pala and turned us onto an unmarked dirt road. “House is out here a little ways,” he said. “Might wanna put your clothes on. Bru’ll probably be there.”
“Bru?”
Rusty leaned forward on the wheel. “Her boyfriend. It’s his house.”
“Boyfriend?” There were turning out to be all kinds of things I had no idea about. I looked over at Rusty through the dusky light, trying to add it all up, but he didn’t look like he was going to help me out. “How long have they been together?” I asked.
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Well . . . do you like him?”
“He’s all right.”
We bumped over the dirt, kicking up dust that glowed peachy in the headlights. I watched Rusty carefully, thinking he had to have been here more than a few times to find the road we were on. Maybe I’d been wrong this whole time, thinking that he and his mom didn’t talk or that he was still angry and hurt over her leaving.
“What’s he like?” I asked, trying to figure out how he felt about this boyfriend of his mom’s.
“I don’t know. Like a crusty old mountain guy who’s dating my mom.”
There, at least, was a sort-of answer. Which only brought up more questions in my mind. “Is he a good guy?” I asked. “I mean . . . is he good to her?”
He looked over at me quick, then put his eyes back on the road, which was now climbing a steep hillside. “Better’n my dad. If that’s what you mean.”
I hadn’t really meant it that way, but the simple truth of his answer and the fact that he said it out loud shocked me quiet. I never knew his parents real well, but I knew about them. Or . . . knew what went around the town rumor mill about them. Nobody was surprised when she up and left. What did surprise people, though, was that she left Rusty behind with his dad’s booze-fueled temper and his tendency to take it out on whoever was closest.
