True North

by Liora Blake

  “Fuck. You. Kate.”

  Huh. That was easy. I turn away and start to pull more empty boxes onto my desktop so I can fill them with all the mementos of my entire life in this office. Every remaining part of my life is crumbling, right now, in this small room. God knows who I’ll be on the other side of that door, hauling my lonely, heartbroken, aimless self down the stairs with boxes crammed full of everything I’ve ever known. And I’ll have nowhere to be.

  “Did it ever occur to you that the reason I got trashed in a stupid bar with Simon, for fuck’s sake, is because the woman I’m in love with went completely dark on me overnight?”

  “Don’t blame this on me. You’re a grown-up, Trevor. You decide how to handle things.”

  “Oh, like how you’re handling things in a super adult way?”

  Throwing his good hand up to the wall with a heavy smack, he rolls his head to the wall and I can hear him breathing in and out heavily. Finally, he turns to look at me again, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the ground.

  “I gave you everything. I told you about Nic. Only two other people in the world know about that. You said you loved me. Now, some two-bit asshole tabloid fucker writes a bunch of lies and you bail. Like that.” He snaps his fingers.

  “What lies?” I turn from him so I don’t have to see his face, where the misery on it is creasing deep lines across his skin. “What did they say that isn’t true? We met, we got together, I went on a TV show and said I didn’t feel guilty, we screwed against the side of your house, I killed my husband.”

  When I mumble out the last sentence, I have to brace my body from falling down. I lean against the far wall and stare out the window, watching more snowflakes drift lazily down to the street. Behind me, I can hear Trevor kicking some boxes aside.

  “Katie, remember what you said to me about Nic? You said it wasn’t my fault. You told me that was grief and love and pain talking. You said you wanted me to hear that, no matter how many times you had to say it.” He takes another step closer to me but doesn’t touch me. “So, pay attention, because now it’s my turn. You did not kill James. You had an accident and he died.” Lowering his voice one small notch, he leans in. “It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”

  Swallowing, I clench my jaw and stay strong. “People around you think I’m bad for you. Geraldo just got them to say it on record, but I know everybody in your inner circle doesn’t like me. Damien. Your mom. Rob. They all act like I’m going to hurt you.”

  “OK. First, who the hell is Geraldo? Second, nobody thinks you’re bad for me. Damien just thinks I’m dangerously pussy-whipped, which is hilarious since he’s been whipped over his wife, Charmaine, since we were fourteen. My mom doesn’t trust anyone, especially women, with her son. I think Rob would probably cut off his right arm to be with you, that’s how much he digs you. Third, nobody said anything on the record. Do you know what ‘anonymous source’ means in a tabloid? Fucking bullshit. It means, ‘I’m an asshole tabloid writer who just made this quote up.’ Don’t confuse what they do with actual journalism. Now, tell me who Geraldo is.”

  Heaving my shoulders down, I sigh. “Geraldo is the guy who was in Crowell, creeping around for dirt on me. I don’t know what his actual name is. Everybody just started calling him Geraldo because it was funny. Then I saw him outside the sushi place. He looked at me like he could see a bull’s-eye on my forehead.”

  Trevor stares at me and blinks a few times. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he dials and I can see him grinding his teeth. “Damien, Kate says some guy named Geraldo was in town trying to dig shit up on her. . . . No, that’s just what they called him. . . . Yeah, have them call around here, see if they can figure out who he is. . . . There’s a café called Deaton’s and one gas station in town, start there. I’m sure the locals will be more than happy to divulge his name off a credit card slip if he used one. . . . Tell Josephson’s office to nail his ass to the wall.” Trevor shoves his phone back in his pocket and then rubs his eyes with his palms, when he rubs over the scratch, I see a grimace of pain as he pulls his hand away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m fixing this as best I can. My attorneys are figuring out how to file a suit against the rag because whoever took that picture of us was trespassing. It would have been impossible to get it from the road; there’s too much landscaping. If it’s this Geraldo guy, he’s going to regret the day he stepped one inch onto my property.”

  Rolling my eyes, I sigh and cross my arms over my chest. “You can’t fix this, Trevor. You can’t just throw money at it and expect it all to be OK.”

  “Don’t do this, Kate.” Moving toward me, he takes a risk and leans his body against the back of mine. He lowers his head so his mouth is at my ear and takes a deep inhale. “You want to give up what we have together over this?”

  He inches closer and lets his lips fall against my neck, dragging his mouth over my skin. As it always does, this sends a tight shiver through me and I want him so badly. My arms drop to my sides helplessly. Trying to fight against the desire washing through me, I curl my toes inside my shoes and squeeze my eyes shut. His arms slide around my waist, his hands flat against my belly, just low enough that the fingers of one hand are under my shirt, grazing the bare skin.

  “Don’t you miss how fucking amazing it feels when we touch each other? All that heat, that love, the goddam way everything feels perfect when I’m inside you? You really want to walk away from that?”

  Oh God. It’s too much. I’m feeling overwhelmed and aroused and exhausted, all at one time. If I don’t go for the jugular, I’ll give in. I can’t give in. This man, with all his sexy passion and his gracious authenticity, deserves more than what I can give.

  “Just go, Trevor. I can’t do this.”

  The words come out quietly as I step away from his warm, tender hands around my waist and I hear him take a sharp, suffering breath. When he leaves, he doesn’t shut the door to my office, so I can hear him offer some kind of good-bye to Rita before his heavy steps echo down the stairs.

  I know if I see him on the street, if he turns up to look at me, I’ll break. In some kind of shattered logic, I walk to my desk and crawl underneath it. This desk was my dad’s, an old oak dinosaur covered in dings and dents that could tell a long story about this little town newspaper. When I was a little girl, I would play under this desk after school. Hidden and covered, it was the perfect place to burrow in and read for hours while he worked away in the main office.

  Today, it feels safe here, the last bastion of security in my life. One day, a very long time ago, a little girl named Kate Mosely carved something under here. I had just finished reading Little Women, and all I wanted was to know that someday I would be a real writer like Jo and find a boy who thought I was remarkable. In the dark wood, I etched my initials with a plus sign inside a crude heart, leaving the space below blank. Tracing my fingers over the etching now, I can’t imagine how I can deserve two men in one lifetime who would love me like that.

  In the pain and confusion of everything, nestled into my childhood hiding place, one thing leaps to mind.

  I have to get the hell out of here.

  27

  When I scrambled out from under my desk, all I did was grab my keys and run out of the office. I could hear Rita calling my name, telling me to stop, but I didn’t. I ran down the stairs, barely squeezing past a shocked and confused-looking Herm, who was headed up the staircase just as I was making my getaway. The main door slammed behind me and I bolted across the sidewalk to my car and drove home, breaking every traffic law that exists in the state of Montana.

  I half wondered on the drive if I would find him here, sitting on my doorstep and waiting for me. When I pull in the driveway, my heart sinks a little. Maybe I wanted a movie-worthy dramatic scene from him. The kind where he would say all the right things to make me forget every reason there was for this to be over and proclaim loudly that he was refusing to give up. But my doorstep is empty. The driveway is emp
ty. And, when I throw open the front door, every room is empty.

  I stand in the middle of the living room, the silence making everything worse, because I can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat thumping away too fast, brought on by my panic-fueled need to escape and the realization that he has probably given up. Too many things are running through my mind, so many thoughts at once that I close my eyes just to tame the onslaught of them all. My plan when I left was to get out of here. “Here” being Crowell and my home, because Trevor made his mark everywhere. If I don’t find a strange new place where I can’t feel him, I will suffocate on my own thoughts.

  Grabbing a travel bag from the hall closet, I rifle through my drawers and toss in only the essentials: as many clothes as I can grab and stuff in, a notebook to record my every dramatic creative rant in, and running shoes. I stop in the kitchen to fill a few water bottles, shoving energy bars in my coat pockets as the tap runs. Pausing at the front door, I turn back and scan the room, not sure what I think I might find out of place, then slip through it with my bag slung over one shoulder.

  I don’t even make it off the porch step. Just as I turn the lock in the dead bolt and step away to head to my car, Lacey is pulling into the driveway, dirt and dust billowing behind her because she is driving much too fast. She actually pulls all the way up to the house with her front bumper nearly touching the bottom step of my porch, before I hear her set the emergency brake with a heavy-handed pull and swing open her car door. Standing in the space of the open door, Lacey flops one hand on the roof of her car and begins thrumming her fingers on the tinny-sounding metal.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “What are you doing here, Lacey?”

  “Rita called me. Said Trevor showed up and you took off. You scared the shit out of her, Kate. I told her I’ve just been waiting for your classic meltdown, so here I am.”

  As irritating as she can be and as different as we are, Lacey still knows me too well. Even though Sharon was the one to hold me up when James died, my sister was in the background, hovering there and cataloging everything. From the time we were kids, she’s watched me and kept score. First as the little sister who thought I was somehow mystical, and now as a grown woman who knows I’m imperfect and exhausting. It’s something I’ve always known but pushed aside. So often, I’ve chosen others over her. My dad. James. Sharon. Trevor.

  Lacey shuts her door with a thud and comes to stand in front of her car, sitting on the edge of the hood and crossing her arms over her chest. “So, where are we going?”

  I take a few quick steps to head down the stairs, but she darts into my pathway, sticking her foot out to make it clear she will trip me if necessary. Narrowing my eyes in her direction, I can feel my jaw starting to clench. I have to get out of here. Now.

  “We aren’t going anywhere. I am getting in my car and driving somewhere. Alone.”

  Lacey runs her fingers through her hair, looking unfazed despite my attempt to sound intimidating. “I’m coming with you.” She points through her windshield at a duffel bag on her passenger seat. “I’m packed and everything. You can name the place, but you’re not going alone.”

  Because I want to leave so badly and the heavy anxiety of needing to disappear is settling squarely on my lungs, I drop my bag to the ground and hold up my hands. “Fine.”

  She must be surprised that I caved so easily. Her head cants to the side, then she straightens up quickly and drops the shock from her expression. “OK, then. Where to?”

  “No clue. Away. Just . . . away.”

  Studying me for a moment, Lacey screws up her face in thought. “We could go see mom in Taos. Visit Uncle Charlie while we’re there. He probably has some seriously good pot or another recreational drug on hand that will make all your cares fade away.” She flits her fingers into the air with a grin and waits for my response.

  Good God, no. I would have to be an even more gloriously screwed-up mess if I thought my mother can help. But if there’s anyone who knows about disappearing because you can’t find the true north of your own goddam soul, it’s her. This is a woman who took off one day under the guise of visiting her hippie pothead of a brother in Taos and then never came back. After twenty-five years of marriage, two children, and never a single peep about any discontent. My father was left baffled in Crowell, wondering where his wife had gone and why. Eventually, he just gave up trying to understand and gave in to letting her go. They never even divorced. They just stopped being married.

  I don’t even have to verbalize it. I simply raise my eyebrows and frown. Lacey chuckles. “I figured that would be a no. Guess we’ll have to go back to basics.” She grabs my hand and drags us into the middle of my wide dirt driveway. “Close your eyes.”

  When she says it, I know exactly what she’s doing. I slump my shoulders and groan. “Seriously? We’re too old for this game.”

  “What?” Lacey exclaims, then grabs each of my hands in her hers and shakes them around. “We’re never too old for this! Now close your eyes.”

  When we were kids, we used to play a game out on our grandparents’ farm. We called it “Someday.” One of us would close our eyes and the other would spin us around until we were so dizzy we could barely stand straight. Then the one with their eyes closed would stick their arm out and point in whatever direction felt right. Based on the direction chosen, we would spread out our parents’ worn Rand McNally atlas on the ground and plot out the imaginary path we thought fate had defined. We would trace the map with our grubby little fingers, deciding where we would stop, the towns that sounded the most exciting, the cities that looked the biggest and scariest. Frankly, we probably didn’t even read the map correctly. But it’s the kind of game that kids who grow up in small towns subsist on, inspired by the need to believe there is more beyond the confines of what they know as home.

  I close my eyes and sigh. After only a few turns, my equilibrium starts to falter and I reach out with both arms until Lacey grabs my shoulders. I stick my arm out and open my eyes.

  Standing behind me, Lacey follows my gaze over my shoulder and proclaims, “All right. Go west, young man.”

  The sound of her feet quickly crossing the dirt ends with the noise of her car door opening, followed by the distinct flick of paper flapping in the slight breeze. Lacey shakes the unfolded map a bit, then spreads it on the hood of her car.

  When I make my way over, she has her finger pressing down on a specific spot and without raising her gaze, she announces, “Here. This is where we’ll go. Into Idaho, just over the border in the national forest. There are some hot springs up this trail and a cool little town nearby.”

  “Have you been there before?” I give Lacey a slightly confused look. It’s rare that she leaves town and especially unusual for her to cross the state line. She folds up the map and nods, but avoids my stare.

  “It was years ago. But I remember it being the best three days of my life.” She clears her throat quietly and grabs her bag from the front seat of her car. “Who’s driving?”

  Five hours later, Lacey pulls off the highway into the parking lot of a crappy motel with a lime-green roof and a seemingly random, dilapidated miniature golf course next door. She shuts off the engine and peers out and up through the windshield. “Why is it that everything always seems bigger and better in your memories?”

  In the darkness of the car, she looks lost and confused for the moment. Quickly, she closes her eyes. Then in seconds, her hand is on the door handle, eyes open again. Before I can ask about those memories, the story behind how we ended up here, she is out of the car and waiting for me to do the same.

  We rent a room and drop our things on the two queen beds. The poorly lit room smells of old people and herbs, like stagnant sage and menthol. Assuming we will crash for the night then make a fresh plan in the morning, I flop down on my bed, the mattress springs squeaking, and start to slip my shoes off.

  “No. No. Up, up, up. We’re going to the hot springs.”

  “What
? It’s dark out.”

  “That’s why I have this.” Lacey flicks on a flashlight and waves it around the room. “Hot springs at night are the best. Just keep your fingers crossed we don’t encounter any drunken kids getting it on up there.”

  “When did you get so adventurous?” I groan.

  She ignores my question and proceeds to point the flashlight directly into my eyes until I squint them closed. Calling behind her as she walks out the door, Lacey threatens five straight hours of Slug Bug and I Spy all the way home, if I don’t hurry up.

  We stumble our way up a rocky trail for a half mile or so, Lacey and her annoying flashlight leading the way, eventually shimmying across a large felled tree that ends at a steep but modest-sized scree field. We sidestep down the loose rocks. A small hot spring sits at the bottom, its vapors clearly visible in the cold night air.

  Lacey cranes her head and then points the flashlight up from the base of her chin to illuminate her grinning face.

  “No horny teenagers, it seems.” Cupping her ear into her hand, she tips her head in the direction of the hot spring. “I don’t hear any awkward grunting or anything. Excellent.”

  Once we make our way to the spring, we strip down and slip into the nearly too-hot water, and the sulphurous smell is heavy in the air immediately. I’ve always thought hot springs were mostly for hippies or nudists, maybe the occasional hiker, but in the darkness and dead quiet I start to understand the relaxing qualities people claim these mineral waters extoll. My limbs start to relax for the first time in weeks. The pain of holding such tension inside yields for the moment, and even if it only lasts until I stand up and get out, I like the way it feels.

  Staring at the landscape visible under the sliver of moonlight, I reflexively wish that Trevor were here. I want to point out the trees, the shadowy figures of withering sagebrush in the distance. Blinking, I force myself to shake the thoughts before they drift into the sensual places of my heart where everything about him still hovers.