Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (24 page)

“When did you change the license plate?” I ask softly.

“At the state line,” he answers, gruffly, like he's still pissed.

“We need a plan,” I finally say. “We need to know where we're going.” I turn my head to look at him because I can't resist any longer. “So just drive for now until we figure it out.”

He nods and then puts the car in drive and pulls out onto the road so fast that the wheels spin and I can hear the gravel flying outside the car. I shoot my hand out and grab his thigh in warning. We have to be normal. Well, we have to act normal, at least. We have to drive like normal people and smile like normal people and lie like normal people. It all sounds so tiring, but there's no other option. He takes his foot off the gas and the car gradually slows to within the speed limit. I relax back into my seat, but he grabs my hand before I can take it away. He wraps his rough fingers around mine and holds my hand against his thigh. I glare at him for a moment, but I don't fight him. I just let him have it.

Chapter Eighteen

I
convince Elliot to drop the woman outside of Twin Falls. The longer we have her, the more of a problem she'll be. We have enough problems as it is, I don't want to add a living breathing one to the mix for any longer than I have to. Surprisingly, he doesn't argue with me and after awhile, we find a wooded area off the highway and pull in. It's desolate enough that it gives us the cover that we need, but it's not too desolate. She'll be able to find her way to the road with no problem, eventually. I want her to live, but I don't want her to be a problem for us. I stay in the car as Elliot pulls her out of the trunk. She's limp in his arms, probably too dehydrated and hungry to do much. She stopped screaming a long time ago. I watch in the rearview mirror as he sets her down on on the grass. She wiggles on the ground but he says something to her and she goes still. Then he turns and runs back to the car and we peel out. I watch her in the side mirror until I can't see her anymore. I realize then that I never saw her face. But it doesn't matter.

She's just lucky that she got out alive.

After that, we don't stop until Dallas.

He's sleeping next to me, his head propped against the window as I pull up down the street from my parents' house. I know it's stupid, but I can't stop myself from wanting to see it one last time. Their cars aren't in the driveway and I wonder where they've gone. Did they go to Seattle? Are they looking for me there? Do they think I'm dead? I have no answers for those questions. I feel like I can't leave without saying goodbye, though. I've been a shitty daughter and a terrible person. I don't want to leave them with so many horrible questions on top of all of that. I don't really want to leave them at all, but I know I have to.

I turn off the car and take the keys with me, making the decision quickly. I shut the door lightly behind me, hoping he won't wake. I only plan on being gone for a few minutes anyway. It's mid-afternoon,  most of the houses on the block are empty. The kids are in school and the parents are at work. I use it to my advantage, running up their lawn quickly and hoping no one will be the wiser. I unlock the door, using the key that I've had my whole life. I pause for a second to raise my head and show my face to the security cameras. I can't help it – I want them to see me one last time.

I don't spend very much time in the house. I have a very specific wishlist. First, I go for the safe in my parents' closet. I almost get distracted by their bedroom, by the scent of my mother's perfume and my father's aftershave and the familiar signs of them that are all over the room. Their bed isn't made and my mother's house shoes are askew on the floor. My father's leather belts are slung over the chair in the corner. The picture of my father and I dancing at my
quinceañera
hangs on the wall beside the bathroom door. I tell myself that I don't have much time and I get to work.

I don't take much – five thousand in fifties, an amount that I can roll up and stick under my tits in my bra, and one of the handguns that my father keeps lying around. In return, I slide off my wedding ring and place it inside. I won't need it anymore. My mother will probably want it, I reason. I close the safe behind me and I try not to feel guilty about stealing from my parents. I doubt they'll notice it missing, but that's not the point. At least the ring is a bit of payment. I just know that I'm better off with the money and the gun than without and the ring is useless now. I don't think they'll be angry with me; I think they'd want me to do whatever I have to do to survive.

That's exactly what I'm planning to do.

Before I go, I write a quick note on the pink pad that my mother keeps by the telephone in the kitchen. I leave it on the counter, where I know they'll see it. I don't know what else to do. There's no going back for me now. I can't stop myself from hurting them, but I can try to make it better. I can try to ease some of their suffering. I don't write much, but I hope it will be enough. I don't know how long I spend in the house, but it's not long enough. Part of me doesn't want to leave. Part of me wants to go back upstairs to my bedroom and get into bed and pull the covers up over my head. I know it's silly and childish, but I can't help but think about it as I lock the door behind me. When I get back to the car, Elliot is in the driver's seat. He doesn't question me as I get in and I'm thankful. I don't want to talk about it. I can't. So I toss him the keys and then we get back on the road. We drive all night and I don't think we say two words to each other the entire time.

At sunrise, we cross the border into Juarez, Mexico.

*****

The bathroom air is thick with steam when I finally turn off the the shower. The stream was weak and the water was too hot at times and too cold at others, but I finally feel like I'm clean. I hold my hands up to my face and check my nails. No more blood is hiding in the crevices, I hope. I can't see it anymore, but I'm sure that some of Mitch's DNA is still there, at the microscopic level. I press my hair to my nose and take a deep breath. It smells like artificial apple scent, bright and green, but there's still a hint of ash deep in the strands. I wonder how long it'll take, how many showers, until I don't smell like I was burned at the stake. We're here, we've escaped, and yet, we haven't gotten away.

I step out of the tub slowly, carefully, not wanting to slip on the slick tiles. I grab one of the scratchy motel towels from the rack above the old toilet, reminding myself to find a store at some point and stock up on essentials. Decent towels that haven't been used a million times. Decent sheets that aren't covered in someone else's cum stains. I grabbed a hairbrush and a few other necessities at the poor excuse for a drug store down the street as we drove in, but it's not enough. I didn't need that big house back in Seattle, full of fine and expensive things. I didn't need all the crap that went with my old lives. Most of it was baggage anyways. But a decent set of sheets and towels? Any self-respecting adult woman would need that to feel normal.

Normality is the goal.

I dry off as best as I can with the thin towel, then toss it back on the rack. It smells musty and moldy, so I do a half-assed job. I doubt it matters if I hang it up or not, but I figure it's  better to keep things tidy. I swipe my hand across the cracked, misted mirror over the sink, clearing away some of the condensation so that I can see myself. I look like shit. My hair is thick and a mess and I force my plastic-toothed brush through it, starting at the ends. I run my hands across the rough strands. I've kept my hair long for the last two years, like it would bring me closer to Elliot. Now that he's in the next room, it feels superfluous, like a luxury I can't afford anymore. I left all of my luxuries back in the States. As much as I hate to admit it, when I look in the mirror, I can almost see that girl from eight years ago, with her long braid and her innocent stupidity, staring back at me. I haven't seen her for a long time, but here she is again, reminding me how my life could have been so different. Of all the places I envisioned myself, I can honestly say I never saw myself here, in Mexico, in a shitty motel with nothing to my name but a gun and a couple grand in stolen money.

Shaking my head, I grab the plastic bag from the drug store off the toilet. It has a few other things left in it – a stick of deodorant, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and nail clippers. But what I'm searching for is at the bottom. A sturdy pair of metal scissors, similar to the kind my grandma used to have in her sewing basket. They're not very big, but they'll get the job done. I part my hair down the middle and sling the heavy, wet length over my shoulders. My hair lays over my tits, as wavy and black as it always was. I figure I'll hack it off at the collarbone. Anything shorter might require more finesse than I'm able and willing to give this haircut. I lift the scissors and grab a chunk of hair, telling myself to do it. It's just hair, it doesn't matter.

At that moment, a loud bang on the door causes it to echo loudly in the small room.  I jump and make a snip and a dark strand of hair falls and curls in the bowl of the sink. “Joanie,” Elliot growls on the other side of the thin wood. “You've been in there long enough.” I turn back to the mirror, my hand shaking by the shock of the noise. I return to my mission at hand and snip another chunk of hair. The first cut was the hardest, but now I'm impatient to cut it all off. I can hear him turn the knob, but I locked the door before my shower. I know he's not going to like that. “Open the door,” he says, and it's a demand, not a request. He bangs again, and the thin hollow door vibrates with the power of his disapproval. I keep chopping away, not even bothering to make it pretty. I can make it pretty later. For now, I just want to get it off. With every chunk of dark hair that falls, I feel lighter. I feel less like the old me.

The splinter of the wood catches me off-guard, but by the time he kicks the door open, the damage is done. All of the pretty dark hair that he loves so much covers the floor and the sink. “Fuck Joanie!” he hisses as I run my hand through the chopped strands, tugging on the blunt edges because they feel weird. Before I can dodge him, he grabs my shoulders and whirls me around. The scissors fly out of my hands and hit the floor as he throws me against the wall. I gasp as the air is pushed out of my lungs by the force, but he doesn't care if he hurts me. He's pissed and that's all that matters. “What the hell did you do?” he says, his face inches from mine. He's crowding me and my heart jumps in my throat. My pussy clenches too, because I'm still weak when it comes to him. I hate that I'm naked and he's completely dressed. It gives him some kind of advantage.

“We're going to have to pay for that door,” I say, as calmly as I can manage.

“Why did you you do it?” he asks, bringing a hand up to run it through my hair. He's not gentle. I keep my mouth shut, trying not to moan at the rough feel of his fingers against my scalp. But then he grabs a fistful of my hair when I don't answer, forcing me to cock my head to the side. It's an awkward angle and my neck cries out in protest. “You think I won't want you now? You think I'll love you less?” he says, his mouth so close to mine I can feel his breath caress my lips.

“It wasn't about you,” I say, knowing that that's only half of the truth. It was about me, but it was about him as well. After all, there's no differentiating between us. When something affects me, it affects him as well. Anytime I do anything, he's right there in my brain. “I'm not Joan anymore,” I announce, tilting my chin so my lips are even closer to his. I can't help it; I hate him but it's a force of habit.

“Then who are you?” he asks, tightening his fist in my hair. I whimper as the pain shoots through my scalp. I raise my hand and grab his wrist. I squeeze, digging my nails into his skin. He doesn't loosen his grip. Neither do I.

“I haven't decided yet,” I say through gritted teeth. He shakes his head in disagreement.

“You're still the same fucking person,” he says. “I see you and you're still her.”

“No I'm not,” I whisper, because although it's true, but it's hard to say somehow. I am a completely different person than I was eight years ago. I'm a completely different person than I was eight days ago. Eight days ago, I was a married woman who drove a BMW and kissed her husband before work and went to parties and cried in the shower about not being able to have a baby. Eight days ago, I was almost happy. I could've been happy with Mitch, eventually. It doesn't matter now, but I think I could have been. Now I don't know if I'll ever know what happiness is again.

That's a fucking dark thought, but it is what it is.

I think I should be allowed to have some fucking dark thoughts when it's after midnight and I'm in a shitty Mexican motel with a dead man breathing down my neck.

I shove at his chest with my free hand, needing space all of a sudden. It's sticky and humid in the bathroom and my skin is getting itchy. I just want to breathe fresh air and escape the smell of the smoke. Elliot still smells like ash; I can smell it on his clothes. I can smell him underneath though, and the familiarity is hard to deny. I used to crave his smell and his touch, now I feel like running from it because it's just too much. His presence is too powerful now. He's killed at least three men. He's also killed me, in a metaphorical sense. I'm standing before him, dead, just as he stands before me, a dead man come back to life.

He grabs my hip and pulls me against him and then he's kissing me and I swear, it's so hard to form a cohesive thought after his lips hit mine. He's not gentle, of course, never gentle. He forces his tongue inside my mouth and I moan against him, my fingers balling into a fist against his chest. His fingers dig into my hip and I know there will be bruises there tomorrow. My scalp stings as well, but all the pain swirls around in my brain, getting mixed up with the pleasure of his lips on mine. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth and tugs on it and I slam my eyes closed as lust hits me in the gut. No matter how much I hate him, he always knows how to touch me and make me forget. He knows all of the ways to push and shove and bully his way past my defenses.

But it doesn't feel the same as it used to.

Before, the lust would be like drowning. He would be like a weight, pulling me under until I succumbed. When he reached for me, my body would swell and rise up meet his touch on command. My body was his because he'd conquered it. He'd fought hard and dirty and he'd won the war. But now, it's not working. My body is responding, but I'm not his slave. I'm wet, but I'm not melting into him and my brain isn't focused on fucking. Like he can sense my hesitation, he pulls away abruptly. I suck in a deep breath and open my eyes and he's looking at me with a dangerous look on his face.