Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (23 page)

Alex swipes at the tears angrily with the back of her hand. Her eyes flash between Matt and me. “Look at you both. Freakin’ peas in a pod!”

“I’m sorry,” Matt whispers. “I’m just… sorry.”

She draws a shuddering breath. “Good-bye, Matthew,” she says. “We can find our own way home from here.”

“How?”

“What do you care? Train, bus, hitchhiking. It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re not around.”

“What about your stuff?”

“You know where we live. Drop it off tomorrow.” She pauses. “Just leave it on the doorstep, though. I don’t want to see you.”

Alex strides away without a backward glance, and in the silence that follows I feel my heart gouged out and stomped on—not just for what I’ve done to Fran, but to Alex and Matt too. Everything makes sense now, and maybe I should be angry at Matt for using Colin’s credit card to cover up the fact that he cheated on Alex. But I’m not angry. Because I know I’ve played a role in the final chapter of their relationship too, and it was a terrible one.

Why would anyone buy my book? What pearls of wisdom do I have to share now?

“I’m sorry, Matt.”

It takes a while, but Matt turns to face me. He even summons a smile; incredibly, it seems genuine. “Don’t be,” he says. “I messed up really bad. Tell the truth, I’m kind of glad she knows. It’s been killing me.”

“But she’d forgiven you.”

“No, she hadn’t. She hasn’t been herself all week. And it’s my fault, not yours. You just gave her an excuse to say what’s been eating her, is all.”

“But—”

“No!” Matt raises his hand. “Save it, okay?”

“But there’s things I have to say.”

He leans forward and lowers his voice. “I know. But four reporters are heading this way, and there’s a lot I don’t want to see in print.”

I nod once, and we run.

I-44 at St. Robert, Missouri

We outrun reporters hovering beside the bookstore, at the hotel, and in the parking lot. As we drive away from Springfield, they pursue us in cars. On the highway, we’re at the head of a convoy with three TV vans. My life—so plodding and predictable—has become a farce. I’m the headliner in my own reality TV show.

I want to know how it ends.

“They’re still tailing us,” says Matt, after we’ve been driving for an hour on I-44. He seems surprised, but I’m not. Why would he think they’d give up the chase now? It’s not like we’re hard to follow. We’re in a bright yellow Hummer; we couldn’t be any more obvious if we stuck flashing red and blue lights on the roof. “This is really weird,” he adds.

“I guess catastrophic book signings are pretty big news.”

“Uh-uh.” He looks in the mirror again. “There were only four reporters at the bookstore, seven hanging out by the car, and three vans waiting outside the hotel. Now we’re up to six TV vans.”

“Six?”
I crane my neck to get a look. He’s right too.

“Yeah. It’s weird.”

No sooner are the words out than he accelerates, surging forward until we’re in the far left lane, passing everyone else on the road.

“Slow down, Matt. We’re not going to lose them.”

He accelerates again. We’re pushing seventy-five miles per hour.

“Please,” I say. “I don’t care anymore.”

Eighty miles per hour. Then eighty-five. I glance at Matt. He’s gritting his teeth, and wears a take-no-prisoners expression that assures me he’s not listening to a word I say. I wonder what the top speed of a Hummer is. I think I’m about to find out.

Ninety miles per hour. The highway is relatively empty around here, and as I look over my shoulder I notice the TV vans are falling behind. Maybe they can’t go this fast. Or maybe they don’t want to be implicated in the high-speed accident that finally, tragically takes our lives.

The road curves. Ahead of us is an off-ramp; Matt floors the gas pedal and sends us careening onto it. He slams on the brakes at the end, and we skid to the right and park behind a motel.

“What do we do now?” I ask. I’m whispering. Not sure why.

“We wait.”

Seconds pass, but no vans trundle along the off-ramp.

“Just one more minute,” he says.

There’s a gas station across the road. Some people are filling their cars. Others are just chatting. They don’t see us here, and they probably wouldn’t care even if they did. And why should they? We’re nothing, really. This whole situation is madness. So much energy has been spent discussing what I wrote, and questioning who I really am. But how can anyone hope to know who I am when I don’t even know myself? Or am I deluding myself again? Am I actually a fundamentally bad person without realizing it?

Finally, Matt puts the car in gear, and rejoins the country road. We parallel the interstate for a mile—close enough to be seen by passing TV vans—so Matt takes another right turn, and now we’re traveling along a long-forgotten stretch of road that makes me feel oddly at home. A sign to the right announces that we’re on Historic Route 66.

“I didn’t know,” says Matt, anticipating my question. “I just wanted to get away, that’s all.”

He keeps chugging along at a steady thirty miles per hour, though the road is deserted. The only sound is the gentle purr of the engine, and the quiet is exactly what I need.

A mile later Matt pulls to the side of the road at the
approach to a large iron bridge. “Huh. We found it anyway,” he says under his breath.

“Found what?”

“Devil’s Elbow—a famous stop on old Route 66. I’ve got a postcard of it at home. They say the view of the river is amazing.”

I’m feeling nauseous, so I get out and walk along the bridge. I lean against the railing and stare at the river below as the sun hides behind trees to my right.

“It’s funny,” says Matt, joining me, “but I was sure this would be our last stop before we got home.”

“It is.”

He sighs. “Not
ours
. Mine and Alex’s.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Why? I’m the one who cheated on her. I should’ve just told her when it happened, but she was already pulling away. I was afraid it’d be the last straw.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Matt hesitates. “No. I guess it wasn’t.”

“See, it kind of is my fault. If you hadn’t stood up for me—”

“I didn’t stand up for you. I just told her to cool it a bit, that’s all. She wanted retribution, or vengeance, or something. She wanted your head on a platter. But it wouldn’t have changed anything.” He stares into the distance, unblinking. “I was just trying to remind Alex who she really is. But we’ve gotten to a point
where she can’t hear that from me anymore. And believe me,
that
is not your fault.”

The setting sun plays shadow games on the sand-colored bluffs that rise from the river. I watch the colors shift, second by second.

“Well, thank you anyway,” I say.

“For what?”

“Being there when I needed you most.”

He laughs. “Unlike the rest of the week, you mean.”

Now I’m laughing too, which seems completely impossible. “You mean the bill from Egghead Kegs? And the fancy hotel room for Alex and Fran? Oh, yeah, and the thousand dollars from the bank? No wonder you haven’t been answering the phone.” I’m practically peeing myself now. “Sheesh! We’re like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. What the heck did you do with a
thousand dollars
anyway?”

Matt wipes away tears of laughter. “Nothing. I’ve still got it. But I was afraid Colin would block the credit card as soon as the Egghead Kegs expense showed up, so I took the cash to make sure we could pay for the rest of the tour. I should’ve taken the cash first, and used that to pay for the keg. I’m not exactly a natural-born criminal, I guess.”

“Me neither. I’ve just been acting like one.”

That sobers us up quickly.

“I’ll give Colin the money, Luke. And I’ll pay him
back for the hotel and kegs too, as soon as we get home. I promise. But I had to get that money straightaway—try to make everything a success.”

I stare at him for a moment and then bust out laughing again. “Well, that thousand bucks must’ve been the clincher then. ’Cause this trip couldn’t have been more perfect.”

“Hey, it could’ve been worse. Colin might’ve come with us.”

“Can you imagine? Hey, that reminds me, he wants a ride— Oh, crap!”

“What is it?”

“We’re supposed to give him a ride to St. Louis tomorrow morning.”

Matt looks sympathetic for all of a second before he laughs again. “Oh, man. He’s gonna be really pissed.”

“And to think,” I say, choking up, “everything was going so well.”

Matt doubles over and starts slapping his hand against the iron railing. We must both look completely insane. When the laughter finally runs out, a comfortable silence replaces it.

“So what’s in the envelope?” he asks.

I’d forgotten I was still holding it, the paper fused to my hand as though my guilt has been branded onto me.

“Teresa gave it to me this evening.”

“Who’s Teresa?”

“The woman who announced that Fran was my girlfriend.”

“Oh.” He thinks about this. “Wasn’t she also at Saturday’s signing? The born-again one.”

“Yeah. Except she’s not a born-again Christian; she’s a reporter for a magazine. Tried to seduce me earlier this week—had someone outside taking photos.”

Matt’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was embarrassed.”

He eases the envelope out of my hand and opens it. He only looks at the photos for a moment, and then he’s back to staring at the river again. “I guess this was last night.”

I glance over to see what Fran and I are doing: me lying on top of her, breathless, hopeless. It looks inexcusable, but at the time, neither of us needed an excuse. It had felt right. Innocent. God-given.

“A week of trailing you around, and she’s hit pay dirt,” concludes Matt.

“You think she’s going to publish them?”

His look of surprise quickly morphs into one of pity. “Oh, Luke. Six TV vans don’t tag along because of a bust-up at a book signing.” He bites his lip. “She’s published them already.”

I won’t cry. I can’t give Teresa—or Chastity—that victory.

“Then why did she come to the signing at all?” I shout. “Why give me these if she was just going to publish them anyway?”

Matt rests an arm across my shoulders. “I guess she wanted you to know she’d won.”

I can’t hold it in any longer. I just throw myself against him and sob. He wraps his arms around me and doesn’t let go.

“I am so stupid. I am such an idiot!” I yell, and the words torture me.

“No. This is not your fault, bro. What she’s done is wrong. It’s
evil
.”

I lean back. “I’m not talking about the photos. I’m talking about Fran.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “She’s all I’ve thought about for years. I love her. I really love her. And I screwed it all up.”

SUNDAY, JUNE 22

Realizations 8: 12–17

12. But yea, there were those who said “No!” And others who said “No way!” And some, even, who spake thus: “No freakin’ way, dude.” 13. But yet did the boy realize they were mistaken. 14. For though they had heard, they had not listened. And though they had read, they had not understood. 15. And so did the boy grasp the book and say, “This once was mine, but now is yours.” And he held it aloft and waited for someone to take it from him, to claim it as their own. 16. Yet no one did, because they all knew that the story ended somewhat inconclusively, and was thus really, really irritating. 17. And besides, the cover sucked.

The Dorsey Residence, St. Louis, Missouri

Sunlight floods into my bedroom, though the curtains are drawn. There’s a poster of Gandhi above my desk. On the mantel over the blocked-up fireplace, framed certificates and awards fight for space. Somehow everything looks familiar and strange at the same time, as though I’ve woken up in another period of my life. Come to think of it, I sort of have.

I hear my parents’ voices on the other side of my bedroom door, so I roll out of bed and stand beside it.

“You take the coffee, I’ll take the muffins,” says Dad.

“Sounds good,” replies Mom.

“Remember, no responses.
Please.
” This from someone whose voice is out of place here.

Colin.

I can’t face explaining to Colin what happened last night, and why I left him behind, and why I’m probably responsible for getting him fired. Since that means I can’t leave my room, I figure I’ll just wait here until—

The door flies open and stubs my big toe. I stifle a cry.

Matt peers around the door. “Oh,” he says, somewhat apologetically. “Well, good to see you’re up already.” He barges into my room and throws some clothes on the bed. “Colin says you should change into these. It’ll be easier for you to go unnoticed if you don’t look like… you know…
you
.”

There’s a criticism hidden in there somewhere, but I can see Colin’s point. So I throw on Matt’s oversized T-shirt and sport shorts, and pull the drawstring as tight as possible.

“There’s something written on your arm,” he says, pointing helpfully.

Colin appears in the doorway, cup of coffee in one hand, muffin in the other. “Looks like you spilled some black stuff on your arm, Luke.” He holds out the muffin. “You hungry? There’s about fifty more where this came from.”

I’m starving, so I take it. “Fifty?”

“Uh-huh. Seems your mom likes to bake. And being the kindly soul she is, she thought it would be a nice gesture to feed all the press gathered outside.”

“Fifty? For the
press
?”

“I know. Not enough for everyone, but I told her she has to draw the line somewhere.”

I’m not hungry anymore.

“Come on,” says Colin. “We need to talk.”

He leads me into the living room.
My
living room, though I don’t feel at home here. Newspapers and magazines are strewn across the coffee table; he gathers them up and carries them away. He’s pretty slick about it, but I know he’s just hiding the evidence, unaware that I’ve already seen it firsthand in glossy 8×10.