Come Undone

by AJ Matthews

  “Oh, yes, Mom told me she tried to call you.”

  “I’m sorry I missed her call. I could have given you and Mac a better welcome. I do apologize for my speechlessness earlier. This was rather … unexpected.” He grins, and for a moment, he’s the goofy teenager from the yearbook. I could totally see him and Mom together. Thinking back, her and Dad—I mean Lucas—didn’t seem to be compatible.

  I glance over at Mac.

  People may say the same thing about the three of us—Dean, me, and Mac. I fit with one, and not the other.

  I guess I’m not as bright as I thought.

  “So are you in college? Working?”

  “Huh, oh, me? I’m at Florida, in film school.” I wait for him to tell me the arts are a loser’s game since my chances of making a lot of money in the profession are slim.

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  The lack of criticism is refreshing.

  He continues. “I love movies. Especially British comedies.”

  I quirk an eyebrow at him. Lots of people make such a claim, but fail to name one passable film. “What’s your favorite?”

  “Shaun of the Dead. Instant classic.” He squeezes ketchup all over the additional basket of plain fries he ordered, then shoves one in his mouth, grinning when he offers the basket to me.

  I decline the fries, but approve the choice of movies. We’ll get along well.

  “Excellent choice. I do enjoy scripted stuff, but currently I’m working on a documentary about the music scene in Key West. For a small town, the arts community thrives. You should visit sometime.”

  “Hmm. I could arrange a trip.” The “lovey” look re-appears in his eyes.

  Come on.

  But it’s not so bad to think someone cares for Mom. My heart softens a little. I want her to be happy. I want her to know she and I are good. We will be good.

  I’ve never talked to anyone, other than my grandmother, who knew Mom so long ago. Now’s my chance. “So what was Mom like in high school?”

  I steel myself for the fawning again, but instead he laughs. “So spirited. She tried out twice to be a cheerleader.” His grin fades. “She was so disappointed when she didn’t make the squad.”

  “Wait. Mom wanted to be a cheerleader?” Now that’s hard to wrap my brain around. She’s so anti- … I don’t know, popularity? Cliques?

  “That’s what I said to her. She was always more artsy, not athletic. She tried out both times to catch Lucas’s eye. He finally noticed.” His voice drops off. I hit a nerve.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” I drop my eyes to the untouched pineapple sitting in the dish in front of me. I pick at it with my fork, though I won’t eat it.

  He reaches over the table and squeezes my hand. “No. It’s fine. I haven’t spoken to anyone about your mom in a long time. I guess you can tell I loved her very much, but I was always the sidekick, the funny guy. The friend. We were both outcasts. Until she started going out with Lucas. Then I was the outcast.”

  “I understand.” Rather, my best friend probably understands what Jake means. My eyes turn to Mac again, who is so in his zone he hasn’t heard the conversation, or has chosen not to participate. “So what happened? Twenty years ago, I mean.”

  I hold my breath.

  “I don’t know what your mom has told you, Trini. About her problems with Lucas. You two should discuss that situation. When she called me out of the blue, though, when I was in grad school, and said she was in Atlanta, I couldn’t resist meeting her. It wasn’t right, and saying I was a ‘dumb kid in love’ is a lame excuse. I’ll spare you the gory details, but here we are now.” He offers a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

  He isn’t blasé about it. He realizes he was party to Mom’s cheating. I can’t say I’m sorry to be alive, but being the product of an extramarital affair is not the greatest feeling in the world. “Here we are. So what now?”

  It’s a question I keep asking myself, and everyone around me.

  The waiter drops the check at the edge of the table. I reach for the slip, aware that while my credit card has the limit to cover the meal, the price tag will still be hefty and Mom will freak. Jake snatches the check from my hand. “Not happening.”

  He hands the waiter his credit card and pulls another card out of his wallet, sliding it to me. The card has his phone numbers and an e-mail address.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I slip my phone out of my purse and send him a text so now he has my number. He pulls his own smartphone out when it dings, and he taps the phone a couple times to save my details.

  “I never asked—how did you get here?”

  “Drove. Mom’s truck, an old beater. Broke down once on the way. I can’t say it’s the best on gas, but we survived.”

  “Do you two need a place to stay tonight? Key West is a long drive back.”

  I consider the offer. I am tired, the past few days draining. Mac needs familiarity, and I need my Mom.

  Yeah, I’m still mad at her, and we need to work through our problems, but I want to see her now. “I appreciate the offer, but we should head home tonight. We’ll take turns driving, and the other will nap.”

  Jake glances over at Mac, whose eyes are closed again, this time as he strums out the chords to the song from the jukebox.

  I nod. “He drives a stick better than I do. It’s a ‘routine’ thing. He repeats the pattern in his head while he drives, and he never messes up with shifting. Me? That’s a different story.”

  We both laugh, and it’s unforced. Natural.

  I could like this guy.

  Someday love him, develop a real relationship with him, a father-daughter bond like the one he shares with Sophie.

  I’m thankful I found him, and hope he agrees.

  We part ways at his office, with neither of us offering hugs or any other physical contact. That will come in time, and I could meet my sister soon.

  And maybe one day, we can all be a family together.

  “Dark and deep/No light, no sound/Sometimes I find peace/where no one else wants to be found.”—Lyrics from “Black Hole” by Mac Kelly

  TRINI INSISTS ON driving, which is fine with me. I’ll take a nap, and we can switch whenever she needs me to take over.

  We’re an hour out from Savannah when I wake up to hear her crying. Soft sobs, like she’s trying to conceal the tears. “Do you want me to drive?”

  She coughs. “No. I’m fine, really.”

  She’s not. I’m so confused. Take two on dinner was good. Trini and her father seemed to get along, and they exchanged phone numbers to stay in touch. I don’t get the sadness.

  “Cheese, what’s wrong?” I think I added the proper inflection to show my concern.

  “Nothing. Everything. Oh, God, I don’t know!”

  Her shoulders shake. A tight wheezing rattles her chest. I wish I had my earplugs. She wails. She slaps the steering wheel once, twice. The third time is too much. My skin jumps, twitching at the sound.

  “I-I need something to eat.” She points to the exit information sign listing gas stations.

  She jerks the truck toward the exit, my body swaying at the jarring movement.

  “How are you hungry? We just had dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  We pull into the first convenience store off the exit and she throws the truck into park.

  I squeeze her arm. “Why are you doing this? I thought things went okay after …” After my meltdown.

  She rubs her temples. “Don’t you understand, Mac? Things did go well tonight, but the past few weeks sucked so hard. What more is coming? I need a little fortitude.”

  “Eating won’t help.” She knows, but speaking the words may help her.

  “I don’t care.” She hops out, darting into the little convenience store attached to the gas station. I reach for the handle, but it’s missing. Right. Broken. I roll down the window and open the door from the outside. I should try to stop her—but I’ll let her buy whatever she wants, and hope
she reconsiders before she takes the first bite.

  She snatches all kinds of junk. Candy bars, a bag of chips, a liter bottle of soda. I walk behind her silently. She doesn’t need to be judged. When I experience meltdowns, the last thing I want is somebody telling me to stop the one action helping me in the moment, whether it’s rocking, scratching, or running water. She’s buying this food to comfort herself. She might not even eat the stuff.

  The cashier rings up all the snacks. Trini throws down a twenty dollar bill and runs out of the store. I take the change and nod at the cashier. Trini’s already in the car. I jump into the passenger seat and put a hand on her shoulder. I rub, squeeze, hoping the touch relaxes her.

  “Trini, I love you. I’m so sorry you’ve been through so much shit the past few weeks. It’s not fair. Do what you need to do to feel better. I’m not judging you. I’m not going to stop you, and I love you, no matter what.”

  She digs into the chip bag but stops, closing it up and tossing it behind the seat along with the candy bars.

  She cries again, the redness of her eyes emphasized by the buzzing glow of the parking lot light. “I love you too. You’ve been through a lot. I put you through a lot. I don’t say this often enough, but I’m glad you’re my friend, and thank you for coming. Without you, the stress would have crushed me.”

  She scoots across the seat, crawling into my lap. I wrap my arms around her. I squeeze tight. She cries into my neck, the wetness from tears seeping into the collar of my shirt. I don’t care. She can mess up all the clothes of mine she wants to keep her from bingeing and hating herself tomorrow, or an hour from now.

  I cup my hand behind her neck, her soft curls winding around my fingers. She lifts her head, and my heart swells under her gaze. I do want to kiss her, but now isn’t the time. She’s hurting and needs comfort. I press my lips to her forehead instead and rub her neck.

  “Why don’t you get rest? Let me drive.”

  Her breath shudders in and out. “Tha—thanks.”

  I slide over her into the driver seat, taking the keys. I’m pretty tired myself, but this whole thing has been so emotionally and physically draining on her, I don’t think she should drive.

  I push the seat back and adjust the mirrors. I tap the clutch, brake, gas, then repeat the process. The pattern gets my head in gear before I need to literally switch gears.

  We hit the interstate, the hum of the tires across the black stretch of pavement providing the soundtrack for the ride home. The miles tick by in a blur of green signs and white lines marking the edges of the highway and lanes.

  My head falls to my chest, but I snap it up quickly. I rub my eyes and open a window. Fresh air helps.

  We should stop, but I push through. Despite the heaviness in my eyelids, I get Trini’s desire to get home, and I want to get there too.

  My eyes grow heavier, though, and lights from the occasional oncoming car are pinpricks through the slits.

  Wake up Kelly. I jerk the wheel to steer the truck back into the correct lane.

  “What the hell?” The sharp movement must have woken her up. She grabs at the dashboard for support. “Pull over, Mac.”

  “No, I’m fine.” I shake my head and forcefully open my eyes wide.

  “Seriously? You are not fine. I should have accepted my father’s invitation to spend the night at his place.”

  “Maybe.”

  She doesn’t respond. Maybe she wants to talk more about her father. Maybe I should ask. “You haven’t said much about him past ‘things went well.’ But I think you feel a lot more than you want to say.”

  “I really just don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “I think it would be good for you to—”

  “For me to what? Talk about my feelings so I don’t try to eat them again?” Her shrill response is like an icepick through my ear.

  I stammer. “I didn’t mean— ”

  “So what if I am holding back, not saying what I feel? Like you’re one to talk, or not talk. I’m okay with your silence. Why can’t you leave the subject alone? Leave me alone? I need time to, what do you say? Process?”

  Her words kick me in the teeth and I fight back. “You know why I don’t talk so much. I can’t focus on more than one thing at a time. It’s the way my brain is wired.”

  “Yes, yes. Whatever. Pull over, before your ‘differently wired’ brain gets us both killed.”

  “Why are you acting like this? What did I do wrong now?” I search her face for answers.

  Big mistake.

  The truck runs over something, debris or a small animal, and the wheel slips in my fingers. Panic sends my hands into a flurry of motion as I stomp on the brake and steer into the direction of the skid.

  Trini screams when it seems like one final spin is going to careen the truck into a guardrail on the shoulder.

  Then we come to a dead stop.

  I howl, releasing the ball of tension that’s been building in me for the past week.

  After that, the world fades to nothing, and it’s a welcome respite from the noisy brightness that’s been drowning me.

  “When the demons want to come out and play, one of the best ways to drive them back into the hole is with a song.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  “MAC! GOON! CAN you hear me?” I run my hands over his head, his arms, his legs. No blood, and no marks or bumps on his head from what I can tell. “Please, please be okay.”

  Why did I provoke him? Why was I so mean?

  His arm convulses under my fingers and his eyelids blink open. Oh, thank God.

  “What happened?” He unclicks his seatbelt and stumbles out of the truck. I jump over from the passenger side and follow. The night air is chilly, a relief from the scorching fear gripping me seconds ago.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He sits down on the guard rail and taps his fingers, humming a melody to a song I don’t know.

  Wait. I do know this song.

  You read me like a book

  I need you to look

  My way

  See me

  See the way I need

  You

  Need you to read me

  See me

  Love me

  See me

  Love you

  His voice is low, haunting, making me shiver. His eyes glint in the headlights of the truck, his gaze focused on something invisible to my eye.

  “Let’s get you back in the truck. Let’s go home.” I tug on him, and after a minute he stands and shuffles almost like a zombie to the passenger door.

  I climb in, sliding the seat up so I can toe the pedals. If I never have to drive this beater again, it would still be too soon.

  Luckily, this stretch of 95 is rather deserted tonight, so I can steer us back in the right direction without concern for oncoming traffic. I drive another seventy-five miles or so before the drizzle starts. Within minutes, the rain falls in sheets, making visibility practically non-existent. I ease up on the gas and down-shift, scanning the signs for places to stay. It’s two-thirty in the morning, so I hope I can find one open and with a room available.

  One of the big-chain hotels is off the next exit, so I take that, careful not to jerk the truck and wake up Mac. If I get a room, then I’ll let him know.

  I pull into the palm-tree lined parking lot, the winds whipping fronds loose and straight into the windshield. I drive up under the covered entry and cut the engine. The door is locked, but a sign states to ring the buzzer after midnight. I wave at the clerk through the glass door, and the door slides open for me.

  “Good evening to you, miss.” His bright, white smile is a beacon of hope. I need sleep, preferably in a warm bed instead of the cramped cab of a truck. “How may I help you?”

  I scratch at my chin and lean on the counter. “Do you have any rooms available?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we do. A few rooms. King rooms. One bed. Is that good?”

  One b
ed. At least it’s a bed. The thought of sinking my head into a pillow makes me sleepier. “Oh, yes, perfect.”

  I hand him my credit card and ID, and he goes through the under-twenty-one room deposit spiel. I nod and sign the agreement. He hands me the key card. “Room 421.”

  “Thanks.” I glance at his name tag. “Thanks, Daniel. You’re a lifesaver.”

  He smiles broadly again and instructs me where to park. Around back, and I can use the key card at the back entry.

  I wave as I exit the lobby and move the truck around back. I touch Mac’s arm softly and whisper his name, then say it louder. He startles awake, wiping at his eyes. “Are we home? Why is it still dark?”

  “No, we’re not home. You’ve been asleep for about ninety minutes. I’m exhausted, and it’s pouring, so I got us a room.”

  He sits upright, glancing around. “Oh, sounds good.”

  We grab our gear and use the key card to get in the back door. Down the hall we find the elevator.

  The room is small, but nicer than the other two places we’ve been at on this road trip. Mac spots the one bed, and without hesitation makes alternate sleeping arrangements. “I’ll take the floor.”

  “Mac, no. We can share …”

  His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I can’t.”

  “Sure we can. There’s no reason not to.”

  He stares up to the ceiling. “There are a number of reasons we shouldn’t. Hey, want something more for your movie? Let’s show your audience what a freak your musician-friend is.”

  My head jerks like he slapped me in the face. “No. You are not a freak.”

  “Fine. I’ll go sleep in the truck.”

  I recognize the guilt trip, but I can’t let him try to sleep in the truck the rest of the night. I pull the camera out, set it on the dresser next to the television stand, and hit record. I point to the edge of the bed. “Go ahead. Sit down and tell the world what a freak you are.”

  I don’t mean for my words to be so acerbic, but I’m weary and anxious and have no idea what set off this tirade.