by Lindy Zart
“I’m going to North Dakota,” I tell her slowly, never once looking from her.
Hope brightens her eyes. “North Dakota sounds great. Perfect, really. Exactly where I was hoping to go.”
I step closer, and she steps back. We do this until her back is flush with the truck box and there is no escape. Her throat bobs as she swallows, and though trepidation runs across her face, she doesn’t look away. I set a hand on either side of her, trapping her within my arms as the cool metal of the truck box freezes my palms.
“I have an idea who you are,” I say conversationally. I let those words sink in; I watch a million thoughts race across her features.
“Y-you do?” she squeaks.
I focus on her lips. They glisten under the light of the moon, soft and inviting. “How old are you?” I ask absently, my voice a low hum.
“Twenty-three.”
Truth.
“How old are you?” she shoots back.
“Twenty-six. What’s your name?”
She fidgets, and as if realizing she is, goes still. The pulse at the base of her neck flutters like it wants to fly away. “Piper.”
Lie.
But I’ll let her have it, for now.
“Piper,” I say softly, bringing my face dangerously close to hers. “You…are a liar.”
She swallows, her lips parting. The motion is done without thought, a nervous gesture, and yet I fight to straighten from her, to put space between us. To step back. It’s either that or kiss her. I can do without knowing what the lips of a con artist taste like.
“Let’s go.” My tone is rough, strained with unwanted attraction for a duplicitous stranger.
She doesn’t move from the side of the truck, and with a hand braced on the door, I turn to her. “Are you coming or not?”
“But you…you said…”
“That you’re a liar? Yes. I recall. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“But…” She hesitantly moves away from the truck.
“You went to great lengths to procure a ride with me.” I look her up and down, wondering what secrets she has trapped inside that imaginative brain. “Who am I to deny a damsel in distress?”
Her eyes narrow at my tone as she angles her body toward the passenger’s side of the truck. She knows the kind of person she is, but she has no idea who I am. The look she shoots me before she gets in the Ford tells me she’s having second thoughts. I wonder if I should tell her to get out while she can. A slow smile, hidden in the dark, claims my face.
Opal
He’s an alternative rock boy. That I am not surprised by. He’s got the look—dark unkempt hair, derisive cast to his sharp features. The black bomber jacket with the upturned collar, the straight-legged jeans covering black boots. I bet beneath that jacket he has on a shirt sporting a band name. His vibe screams rebel and bad boy and loner and any other thing most mothers warn their daughters against. My fingernails dig into my palms, wondering if my mom would have done the same.
All he needs is a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth and he could be the quintessential man a woman’s heart should always avoid. I’ve met his kind before. I’ve even dated them. Never for long, and never without wishing I hadn’t.
This guy looks and smells like trouble. And his voice—it isn’t smooth or all that appealing. In fact, it sounds like broken glass. Grating and sharp. Nothing about him cries “love of my life” material. Which is just as well. I don’t need trouble right now.
“Why are you going to North Dakota?” I ask to fill the silence. My eyes want to close and I slide my fingers under the crisp denim fabric of my jacket and pinch the skin near my wrist. Hard. The resulting throb keeps my brain occupied and slumber out of reach.
A good portion of me thinks I will end up regretting my insistence on pairing up with the sullen man with the easily accessible truck. It was a spontaneous decision, brought on by lack of sleep, hunger, and being ditched by my ride when I slapped a roving hand from my thigh. I saw the North Dakota license plates on his ancient truck, and I figured that was a good sign he was heading in that direction. North Dakota is one state over from Montana—my destination.
“What’s your real name?” he counters.
“Jackie,” I fib, turning my head to look out the passenger window. Shadows and indecipherable shapes meet my eyes.
“We should make it to North Dakota in a day or two, depending on how far I can get before needing sleep,” he comments, after a prolonged pause in which he silently called me a liar. Again.
“You never told me your name either,” I say, staring at the headlights marking a narrow path on the freeway. Other than us, the road is empty. It’s eerie, and makes me think of alternate realities and apocalypses.
“I didn’t want you to feel left out with your mysterious persona.” He fiddles with the radio, finds repeated static, and then turns it off. “Let’s do it this way—you tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“I can’t tell you my real name. It’s safer for you if you don’t know.”
The responding snort tells me what he thinks of that.
People usually at least try to believe me before assuming everything that comes out of my mouth is a lie. Which, most of it is. I don’t know why I lie, especially now, when I sound like I’m from a cluster of bad action movies that use the same lines. It’s habitual, an old form of self-soothing I never outgrew.
I clutch my scuffed and dirt-kissed pink backpack to my chest, my meager belongings inside telling a sad tale of a drifter with no anchors to anything but herself.
“If you know, then they can use that knowledge to hunt me down. They’d torture you, and let’s face it, we both know you’d break.”
His eyes snap to mine and back to the road.
I’m starting over, reinventing myself. I don’t know how, but I am. I figure I’ll know who I want to be when I catch a glimpse of her.
“Others have died for knowing it,” I continue.
The man shakes his dark head, amusement adding lines to the side of his face I can see. “Really? Do tell.”
I uncross my arms and sit up straighter, a spark of excitement entering my voice. “I’m an undercover agent on a top secret mission. That’s all you can know.”
“Does this mission include pink elephants and machetes?”
“How’d you know?” I swallow back laughter at the look he gives me.
His eyes flicker my way and down. “What’s in the bag?”
I protectively pull the bag tighter to my frame. “Machetes and mace. A few stuffed pink elephants. Necessities for my mission.”
“What’s your mission, to ruin some kid’s day by massacring stuffed animals in front of them?”
I freeze, my breaths as immobile as me. Did I ruin her day, or her week, or maybe a couple months? Did I ruin her life?
He glances at me, a slice of dark eyes that can shred and rebuild with a single look. “It was a joke.”
“Best joke I ever heard,” I mutter. I relax against the hard seat, feigning calm that left me with his words.
The man’s hands flex on the steering wheel. He expels a loud breath. “You had a shitty childhood.”
It isn’t a question, and I don’t answer. He thinks this is about me, but it isn’t.
He swears, loudly and viciously enough that I jump, and I quickly tell him, “Yes, okay? I had a shitty childhood. You don’t have to get mad. I mean, it wasn’t all bad.”
“No—I left the bag at the gas station.”
I instinctively look at my backpack on my lap and the black duffel bag on the floor near my feet I was tempted to scavenge through while he was in the store. Lucky for him, I haven’t yet added theft to my list of crimes.
I turn to him. “What bag?”
“The bag with food in it. The whole reason I stopped at that store.”
“But you picked up something better than food, didn’t you?” I chirp.
He scowls. “I need a cigarette.”
&
nbsp; My stomach constricts and gurgles as if to commiserate with him over the lack of food. When did I last eat? I think back over the many hours since I started this impulsive road trip. This morning—I had a granola bar this morning. Talking and thinking about food reminds me of how hungry I am. I have a total of one apple and three granola bars to last me until I can find a way to come up with more money or let go of the sparse supply I carry.
“Cigarettes are bad for your health.”
“So is mentioning that to people who smoke.”
That effectively shuts me up.
He uses one hand to roughly rub his face, his aura fraught with agitation. His movements are jerky as he flips on a blinker and takes the next exit.
I brace myself with a hand on the door when the Ford abruptly decelerates and merges sharply to the right. “Where are we going?”
“Hell comes to mind as an eventual destination, but for now, there.” He points a finger at a beat-up red sign that has a cartoon chef with a white hat and a wide grin that reads “Chucky’s Diner: Open All Hours. Come hungry, leave happy.”
“Sounds like sophisticated dining. I feel underdressed.”
The truck rolls to a stop at the intersection and the dark-haired man turns to look at me. I can’t see his eye color, but that isn’t necessary to feel the heat of his gaze as it strips me bare. His eyes feel like they are directly on my skin, burning me, seeing into me, revealing everything I don’t want him to see. I don’t understand why he is scrutinizing me, or what he thinks he’ll find.
The breath I take is shaky, and the sound of it ends whatever spell he has me under. He blinks and faces forward, his motions stiff as the truck accelerates. Silence alive with pinpricks of unnamed sensation travels with us as he drives to the diner. I don’t notice my legs are weak until I almost fall as I hop from the truck, gravel spitting under the pressure of my boots as I fight for balance. I shoot upright and pat down my layered waves of hair that take much joy in their constant mutiny. I try to appear nonchalant, even as my pulse dips and sputters and veers in dizzying directions.
He meets me at the front of the old Ford, his head angled to the side as he watches me approach. I think I prefer sound of any kind to his quiet, so I hum to myself as we walk through the partially filled parking lot, the dark building’s windows filled with light and people. I hug my backpack to my chest, unwilling to leave it out of sight. A metal sign on top of the roof hangs sideways, swaying and creaking as a cool breeze goes by. I hurry past it, not wanting to be beneath the sign should it decide it wants to come down.
Before we reach the door, the scent of fried food teases my nostrils and I press an arm to my aching stomach as I step inside. I won’t be able to order much, and I’ll have to eat slowly to trick myself into thinking it is enough, but any food is better than the emptiness I presently feel. I am not a stranger to hunger, but it hasn’t ever gotten better just because I got used to feeling it.
The handful of people seated at booths pause in their conversations and shift their attention to me and the man behind me. I inhale and hold it, paranoia telling me to turn around and walk right back out of this place. I scan the faces of the occupants, knowing it’s unlikely I’ll see anyone I know from my home state but searching all the same.
“I’m all about enjoying the scenery, but we’ll get to a table faster if you move your legs,” a deep, prickly voice informs me.
I clench my jaw and step forward, heading for a booth straight ahead across the green and white decorated room. With the various fake plants and flowers in pots and on window ledges, it looks like a floral shop threw up in here. Under a ceiling of megawatt-strength light bulbs, I get my first real look at the man I’m traveling with. We slide onto the booth seats, facing one another. His skin is bleached of color, making the blackness of his rumpled hair that much more obvious. The eyebrows are thick and low, giving him a perpetual displeased look. His nose is hawkish and arrogant, and there is a dimple in his chin. He’s not handsome, but his eyes are deep, and the character of his features demands notice.
I look into his piercing gray eyes and my stomach spins, and the room spins, and everything but him is spinning. My fingers itch to cast his unsmiling features onto the fibers of a single sheet of paper, but I only have so much paper left, and my charcoal pencils are down to stubs. I can’t draw anyone unless it’s financially advantageous. His eyes are thunderstorms, lightning, and every natural disaster wrapped up in an iris. The man is unmoving, untouched, as the atmosphere pivots and straightens. Looking at me like he is not all surprised to find me intrigued by his features.
“Like what you see? I don’t blame you. Most women do.”
I swallow, my mouth dry. “Not especially, but it isn’t like I can do anything about it.”
His eyebrows shoot up, one corner of his mouth lifting and lowering.
I’m sure I look a fright. Other than sponge bathing from gas station and restaurant sinks, I haven’t bathed in days. My hair feels heavy with dirt and the need to be washed, and what I wouldn’t give for a proper bath. One I could sink into, with steaming hot water and scented oils and salts. I almost sigh at the thought. I left Illinois in a hurry, and other than the few clothes I tossed in my bag and other necessities, I am without most of my possessions. Possessions are just that, though, and it didn’t make sense to take more than me and what I can’t live without.
Two clear glasses of water thump to the table and my eyes snap up to the purple-haired waitress with a barbell through each eyebrow. She has a tired smile on her faintly lined face as she hands a laminated menu to me and my acquaintance. “Hi, I’m Vicky. Can I get you two anything to drink?”
“Just water,” I say. What I really want to order is an unending supply of sweet, carbonated, caffeinated beverages.
“Coffee, please,” he tells her, holding my gaze.
“All right. I’ll be right back with that.” She takes off, leaving the fragrance of apples in her wake.
He steeples his fingers beneath his dimpled chin and levels soulful eyes on me. “So, Piper-Jackie, did you commit a crime of some kind?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Me, I like to plan for things.” He straightens and shrugs off his jacket. I was wrong about the band name—it’s a red Mr. Kool-Aid T-shirt. “If there’s a chance I’m going to be viewed as an accomplice, and subsequently arrested, I want to make sure my schedule is free. You know…” he says in a bored tone. “Details.”
His coffee is set before him, interrupting the conversation I’d rather not have.
“Are you guys ready to order?”
“No,” he says at the same time I say, “Yes.”
She divides her gaze between us, a small notepad and pen in hand. “Okay,” she replies slowly.
“Toast,” I blurt. “I’ll take two slices of white toast.”
The woman waits, finally asking, “Anything else?”
I chug the glass of water, hoping it will help fill the void in my stomach, and push the empty cup toward her. “More water, please.”
Eyeing me, my dining companion orders white toast, two hard-boiled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. My mouth is salivating like crazy by the time he lists the last food item. We hand over our menus to the waitress, and the tension is in full force again. I pick at a loose pink thread on my bag and hope I’ll suddenly become invisible and he’ll stop examining me like he is. His eyes are like a hot touch as they lay claim to me.
“Is there anything I need to know before we get any further into our little adventure?” he presses.
“No,” I respond. Nothing too bad. Nothing it would benefit him to know.
He pauses, turning his head to show me his prominent profile. The sound of his fingertips tapping on the tabletop is the only noise. He stops, looks at me. “You’re either running to something, or away from it. I think I know which it is for you.”
I don’t reply, focusing on the salt and pepper shakers to the left of me. It’s a little of both.
Our food is brought, mine small and lacking. I shove a piece of toast in my mouth before putting any butter or jelly on it, and his hand freezes around an egg. I bite off another chunk, swallowing before properly chewing. It’s dry and flavorless, but it’s sustenance. So much for my plan to take my time eating.
He slowly lowers his hand, and then sets the egg on my plate, his eyes turning to slits when I open my mouth to protest. Next, two pieces of bacon are plopped on the plate. When he moves to add a pancake to the growing pile of food, I snatch the plate away and shake my head. I don’t want to be in debt to him.
I tear my gaze from the pancake, in this singular instance really wishing I had less pride, because if I did that pancake would be mine. A slice of bacon teeters on the edge of the plate and I sweep it up and into my mouth before it can fall to the floor and no longer be edible. Although, I’d be tempted to still eat it if it did.
“No more,” I command around the crunchy, crispy bits of meat I have yet to swallow.
A barely perceptible nod is the only acknowledgment I get.
I eat everything on my plate before he makes it through his pancakes. I don’t care about manners—not that anyone really ever taught me any. Stomach full, I sit back, content and sleepy. My mouth twisting against the words, I thank him.
“I’m not going to be able to last much longer on the road. I’ll find the closest hotel and get us a room,” he says quietly, adding salt and pepper to his egg before taking a bite.
“I don’t need a room.” My words are sharp. I don’t have money for that. I’ll sleep in the truck if he insists on getting one.
Exhaustion slumps his broad shoulders and he trains his tornadic eyes on me. He suddenly looks worn out by life, and it humanizes him, removes a layer of edges from his severe personality. “Where are you trying to get to?”
“Home,” I answer immediately, my pulse thrumming at the thought. It is my biggest quest to have a place to call that, for once, finally. When I find it, I’m never letting it go.
“And where is home?”
“I’ll know when I see it.” I smile, knowing sorrow leaks out through the curve of it.
