Confessed

by Nicola Rendell

  I want to throw up. I want to punch something. But instead, I roll over onto the pillows, where I can still smell her hair. I close my eyes. I inhale into the pillows, into the place where she’d lain with her head just like mine.

  She’s gone. I’ve lost her.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I wipe a single tear from the corner of my eye.

  12

  I put my foot to the floor and head south, feeling like I’m going to burst right open. This is the right thing to do. He’s a hardened criminal. You know this, Lucy! The Russians are after him! Actual Russians!

  But oh God, it hurts. It was a split-second decision, pure fear and horror. The knife. The look of him when I finally saw through the haze and recognized him for what he really is. He’s terrifying. It’s all terrifying. The whole thing is just too much. Way too much for me.

  I zip past a lady who’s a little over-zealous with her horn use, holding it down for a really rude five seconds at least. I don’t even know what I thought I was doing with him. It wasn’t just that I love the bad guys—what all-American girl doesn’t? No. It wasn’t just that. It was like I saw something deeper, something bigger and softer. Or I just wanted to see something that wasn’t there. Because he’s not soft. He’s a criminal. Did I think I was going to fix him? That I was going to give him a little Lucy-brand love and but a brand new shine on him?

  Oh yes. Like that was ever going to happen. Vince Russo? Just think of him driving a mini-van and feeding a toddler Cheerios. The problem is, I can imagine it. I’ve known him for a single day, and I can imagine it.

  I don’t want to clean him up. I want him just like he is.

  Which is insanity.

  I must be getting my period. I must have forgotten to take my pills and all my hormones are out of whack.

  That’s what I’m going to tell myself anyway.

  I’m tired, and everything is a blur. I am trying to be an adult here. I am trying to make my own decisions. Normally, I’d give myself a little pep talk—They might not be the best decisions, but they’re yours! All yours!

  Except, look where these mine-all-mine decisions got me. Barreling down the highway towards Atlanta, exhausted, thirsty and dirty, with my head in my heart and my heart between my legs, and no idea whatsoever what I’m going to do now.

  Well done, Lucy. Well freaking done. Top marks.

  The ranch hand at our stables says I do this with horses—always pick the one that doesn’t want riding. “Why make things so hard for yourself, Miss Burchett?” he says.

  I don’t know, but I most definitely do.

  My field of vision begins to swirl with patterns and splotches, like glitter on an Instagram filter. I try to read some of the fine print on my dashboard. I try to focus on letters and shapes, but the vision in my left eye is vanishing.

  Just what I need. A migraine. The bane of my existence.

  The centerline is going fuzzy, and it won’t be long before the right-hand side does the very same thing. I put on my blinker, and grit my teeth.

  I put the BMW in park and fumble through my purse blindly for my injector. I find everything I don’t need first—wallet, lip gloss, lip gloss, lip gloss, bubble gum, birth control, tangerine?—until I finally lay my hands on it. It’s about the size of a deck of cards and smooth plastic. I flip open the cap and press the top to my thigh. Deep breath, Lucy. Deep breath.

  I hate this part. But not all the Excedrin Migraine in the world could help me now. It’s time for the big guns.

  I hold my breath. And press the little button with my thumb.

  Snap! goes the needle as it shoots into my leg. I feel sick to my stomach and swallow hard. The needle retracts and I let myself breathe. Then I toss the injector aside, grab a bottle of water from the center console, and swallow as much as I can. It’s hot and tastes like plastic. I choke it down and press my head back against the headrest. The pain throbs through my eyebrows and skull with each heartbeat. Screaming, shooting pain. My brain feels like it’s shivering.

  I’m a mess. A total mess. I need a shower, something to eat, and a halfway decent sleep. I open my eyes, and the dash lights are as bright as the lights on a baseball field, piercing and horrible. I try to adjust the brightness on the dash, but instead, I turn on the radio—why is this steering wheel so loaded with buttons? Why have I not memorized them yet?—and on comes some local station.

  “Burchett Meats has been given a court order to recall all their products in 49 states…And we thought Chipotle was in trouble! Now, onto sports…”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” I say, and try to change the channel. I’m pretty much totally blind now, and I’m just flailing for things that might be buttons. I hit one. Instead of the radio, it starts reading the text that comes to the system from my phone. An auto-tuned voice, which is set to sound British but instead just sounds like some strange version of Stephen Hawking, reads out:

  Lucywhereareyouyourmomissuperworriedimsuperworriedtoocomehomelessthanthree

  The what? I open the eye that is still semi-functional and see the text from my best friend Naomi streaming across the in-dash screen.

  Lucy! Where are you?!

  Your mom is SUPER worried. I’m super worried too!

  Come home. <3

  I clench my eyes shut. I swallow back the hot bile and pain. Cars zoom past, and make the BMW wobble on its wheels as they do. I fumble for my phone and earbuds. Fortunately, even blind, I can find my way around my phone. Muscle memory is a beautiful thing. I swipe and tap. Tap. Swipe, tap. Then, at what I’m pretty much certain is my favorites, I hold the screen one inch from my face—God forbid I call the wrong number and my parents answer. Wouldn’t that be a day-maker? I press on Naomi’s picture. My ears are full of a too-loud ringtone and I adjust it with the button on the wire microphone.

  The feeling of the Imitrex is jarring, but it’s working fast. I am involuntarily grinding my teeth a little. Which means that when Naomi answers, saying, “Little duck. Where in the world are you?”

  My answer, “Lost!” sounds more angry than upset. Which is okay. I prefer nobody to see me sad. Ever. In the immortal words of Charles Burchett, “The world is full of wolves. Never show the little fuckers your belly.”

  #1 Dad. God.

  But Naomi is my anchor and voice of reason in times of utter panic. In other words, exactly the person I need right now. Unless she mentions meats.

  “I just got off the phone with your mom. She’s worried sick. And your dad says to stay away from pickles.” “Pickles!” I grind out. “We don’t make pickles.”

  “According to the internet, you do. Dill, both whole and hamburger sliced. And gherkins!” Naomi says. “Now, where are you? What’s going on? Spill it. Why do you sound like you’ve got your night guard in your mouth?”

  I look through the sunroof at the stars. “Migraine!” I say. I try to unlock my jaw, but it’s pretty well stuck. I suck in air through my nose. I definitely smell Doublemint and Bounce.

  “Oh boy. Got your injector?”

  “Done and done. Listen.” I clear my throat. I rub my jaw. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Clearly not! I just had to convince your mom to wait another twelve hours before filing a missing person’s report.”

  My heart gives a pinch. Mom. I hate the idea of Mom doing something like that because of me. My dad I really don’t mind putting through the wringer because God knows he’s put me through it enough times. But Mom, she’s got enough to worry about. She’s fragile. She’s got a soft heart. “Did she say anything about Peanut?” I slide my necklace back and forth.

  “Peanut is devastated. She doesn’t want to eat, Lucy.”

  A little sob jumps out of my mouth. I feel the tears come up into my eyes and blur my slowly clearing vision. My resolve is withering. If I start crying now, I might find myself back in Connecticut before I know it. And I promised myself that I was going to do this thing on my own. Start over
. Somewhere new.

  On my own.

  That had been the plan at least. Before I ran into him. Him who jumbled me up so badly.

  “Just come home,” Naomi says, sounding thoroughly reasonable.

  “No,” I say, trying not to sound spoiled and bratty, “No way. I’m good. I can handle it.”

  She pauses. I hear her sigh. In the prescription fuzz of my head, a sort of impressionistic portrait of her swirls up into my mind, adjusting her long black curls off to one side and blinking.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I met someone…”

  Naomi sucks in some air. “Ohhhh, boy….”

  I nod, like she’s right here with me. I dig my fingertips into my eyebrows as hard as I can, until I feel the ridges of my skull. It helps, in the way that sticking your hand into boiling oil to distract yourself from a gushing wound might help. “I ran him off the road, totaled his truck.”

  “How romantic.”

  How am I going to explain it? She’ll never understand it. Nobody could, not unless they were there. This must be what people mean about having a near-death experience or seeing Jesus in their Cornflakes. You should’ve been there! “There’s this spark. This excitement. This…” I try to search for the word. It’s not the headache that’s making me lose my power of speech. Is there even a word for this feeling?

  I’m pretty sure I’ve got one. After twenty-four freaking hours? The word is ridiculous.

  Naomi sighs. “When was the last time you ate something?”

  “That’s not the problem.”

  “Lucy. Food. When did you last have any? You know how you get.”

  “How do I get!” I shriek. Then I say it again, trying to sound less angry, “How do I get?”

  “Like this.” Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. Maybe, just maybe, she’s right. Maybe she once told me I’m exactly like those Snickers ads when people act like assholes and monsters when they’re hungry. I look at the clock. The answer is gummy bears ten hours ago with Harold the mall cop, so I lie. “I had a sandwich for dinner.”

  “Oh yeah!” she roars. “Sandwich. If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable. Where are you? Keep your eyes peeled for strip malls. Panda Express is Burchett-free, isn’t it? You know how you like stir-fry.”

  Where am I? Nowhere heading nowhere, and most definitely nowhere near a freaking Panda Express. I’d know that logo anytime, anywhere. Even with a blinding headache. “Better if you don’t know where I am.”

  “Luce.”

  “For legal reasons.”

  “Luce! You sound like your dad!”

  I rub my eyes. I feel my mascara flake off my eyelashes, and I know I must look like a real mess. Which is okay. Because I feel worse.

  Up ahead, dimly in the distance, I see a slice of what looks like apple pie blinking on a diner sign. PRETTY GOOD FOOD, it flashes, over and over. I stare at it so long that when I blink, I still see the glowing words behind my eyelids.

  “Hello?” Naomi says after God knows how long.

  “Will you go to dinner with me?” I ask.

  On the other end of the line, a mattress creaks. “Where are we headed?” she asks. Her voice has changed a little, just a touch, and I know she’s lying down. She sounds a little more nasally this way.

  I put the BMW in gear and nose onto the empty road. “It’s a diner. 1950s. Looks like a big aluminum trailer, kind of. Apparently, they have pretty good food.” “Lovely. So now tell me what’s going on.”

  I head for the diner and tell her about leaving home, about the drive to Tennessee. Inside the diner, as I wait for a woman with a perfectly incredible blonde bouffant to seat me, I tell Naomi about Vince…in bits and pieces. Selectively. No reason to tell her everything. Omitted from the description is the old bullet scar on his back, the daylight robbery, and the fact our sexual dynamic is as violent as it is sweet. She’d never get it. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

  I flop down into a booth upholstered with dark red pleather and look at the menu. A tuna melt leaps right off the page. And a strawberry milkshake.

  The waitress brings me a water and I give her my order. Then Naomi says in my ears, “So. What’re you going to do about the guy?”

  I look down at my body. I’m still stained with soda. I’m filthy. I smell like sweat and anger. And my nipples ache. The guy. “What can I do?” I answer, gulping down water through the crushed ice. “I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted.”

  She snorts. “Since when?”

  It might be her or the glass of water I’ve downed, but I’m feeling a little better. Steadier, less freaked out and alone. Also, my skull no longer feels like it’s going to split open in ten different places. I turn towards the wall and am met by a photograph of Lucille Ball standing next to Superman in the rain, making a big delighted O of her face while Superman laughs beside her.

  “I should let you go,” I say as my milkshake arrives. The waitress sets down a glass, accompanied by the half-full blender cup, stainless steel, frosty, and covered in her frozen fingerprints. I smile and mouth a “Thanks.”

  “Man. You are all tangled up.” Naomi asks, “You want to eat alone? Lucy Burchett? Is this an imposter? What’d you do with my best friend?”

  Of course she’s puzzled by this. Normally, eating alone would embarrass the bejesus out of me. Some people don’t like to kiss in public. I don’t like to eat alone. But amazingly, weirdly, I don’t mind the idea at all right now. I need to think about what just happened with Vince. About home. About what to do next.

  “I need to do some thinking,” I say. Next to me, Lucille might be wet and out on a ledge, literally, but she hasn’t lost any of her sizzle-and-bang. I’ve always secretly liked believing she’s my namesake. I put my lips to the straw and suck on the milkshake. A piece of whole strawberry clogs the end of the straw, and I suck hard. Then I chew it carefully, feeling the tiny seeds between my teeth. “Really. I’m okay. On the blood-sugar rebound.”

  Naomi sighs again. I can feel her slow blink through the phone. “Alright. I’ll tell your parents you’re okay.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Are you coming back? Ever?” she asks. “You didn’t even say goodbye to me.”

  “I’ll tell you where I’m going when I get there.”

  “Okay,” Naomi says. “You better, because I need to know you’re okay.”

  “I’m looking for a place where we can drink mango margaritas on a beach that’s all ours.”

  I hear a small laugh. “Take care of yourself, Luce. And just remember…never mind the maneuvers. Go straight at them.”

  The line disconnects. I leave my earbuds in my ears and stare at Lucille in her Superman uniform. I suck on my milkshake and lean back in my seat. I zip my peanut charm back and forth on its chain.

  Almost instantly, my phone springs back to life.

  My dad’s photo pops up on the screen. He’s holding a three-foot-long roast beef sandwich and smiling at the camera.

  I stare at Lucille Ball. That Lucy would never get rattled by a bad day, a headache, and a pair of dirty shorts. She’d never be thrown off by the Ham King. So I channel my inner Super Lucy and answer. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Call off the cops, Helen!” he screams to my mom.

  “Dad, I’m fine,” I say. I suck up a little more milkshake.

  “Now listen carefully. The SEC is going to be calling. We’ve got to get our stories straight.”

  Oh no, no, no, no. I hadn’t expected something ordinary—a How are you, or Are you alive?—but what did he just say? “We? What we? There is no we, dad.”

  He coughs. “Well, see, here’s the thing…”

  I grip the blender cup of my milkshake. It’s so cold that my fingers stick to the frost. I hear Dad’s office chair go squeeeeeak. “You’re inheriting this business, Lucy. My problems are your problems.”

  My mouth drops open. “No. They are not. I’ve got nothing to do with
it.”

  “Actually, legally you’re…”

  Nope. Nope. No way. I will be my own Superman. I am my own Lucille Ball. If I’m on a ledge, I can get myself off of it on my own. So I press END CALL, and my dad and his three-foot sandwich fade to black.

  13

  I walk a mile down the road to a dive bar that makes last night’s The Last Resort look respectable. This place doesn’t even seem to have a name. It has a busted window held together by duct tape, and bullet holes in the walls. There’s a sign nailed to the entrance that says NO CONCEALED GUNS.

  Seems about fucking perfect for how I’m feeling right now. I shove the door open with my shoulder. Inside, the air is heavy with smoke. There’s a whole shitload of fake wood paneling, and there’s a television on in the corner. It’s tuned to Fox News.

  Fucking great.

  But whatever. I’m not here to watch TV. That’s for fucking sure.

  There are a few people at tables, but only one guy at the bar, in a dirty wife-beater T-shirt. I take a seat way down from him on the corner. Bars like this, they’re like urinals. There’s an etiquette to this shit.

  The bartender is a big thick guy with a handlebar mustache and a couple of old, faded tattoos on his arm. Looks like he got pardoned but was in jail too long to be saved.

  He puts a coaster in front of me.

  “Tequila, straight,” I say, pulling out a cigarette. The bartender doesn’t stop me. Give a shit about smoke-free laws down here, apparently. “Keep them coming.”

  No answer as he turns, takes the bottle from the rack, and puts it down in front of me. He puts a glass beside it. “You look like you need it.” I’m sure I fucking do. I light the cigarette. The sound of her door slamming is still stuck in my head. I called it: No way I deserve someone so beautiful, so sweet and warm. I had her for twenty-four hours, not even. That’s all I deserve. “Women, right?”