Truth or Dare, page 2
Then Hadley puts a hand on mine for what seems an eternity. She’s worried about me, I can tell. It’s a pleasant thought, I confess, but I’ll be damned if I look up. I feel more than a little wobbly after this fallout, and my heart thumps. I pretend not to notice, like it’s nothing. I use the other hand to grab my napkin, glancing over at her gold ring. And I’m torn. Just when I’m ready to look up, she makes the decision for me, slipping her hand away.
“Just give me a shout if you need anything else.”
I grab a fry, eating quickly. I’ve got to get home before the roads get too slick. I overhear my pal striking up a conversation at another table beside mine. I listen for a while, then I block it out.
It’s dark out, but the mere speed of headlights on the other side of that window tells me traffic has already slowed to a snail’s pace. You know, blizzards are about the only time people drive reasonably well. For that reason, I wish storms like this would travel through these parts more often.
I scroll social media as I eat. #Snowmageddon. The general consensus: Bring it. That said, the governor has declared a state of emergency and a driving ban after midnight.
When I finish, I leave cash on the table to cover my bill plus some, make my way through a party of four, and use my body weight to shove open the heavy door. The wind cuts. It’s dropped at least ten degrees.
I use my glove to brush powder off my seat, swing a leg over, strap my helmet on. Then I weave my way into northbound traffic.
Handling a bike in the snow and slush is a feat. I focus on balance and swerve around patches left by tires and plows, taking it easy on the blacktop and keeping to the main drag where cars have already trod a pretty smooth path. My apartment’s right downtown, but five minutes from here in good weather.
I creep past the few remaining parked cars along the curb. Shopkeepers are flipping door signs from Open to Closed. Pedestrians are using mittens and hats to block wind. Two dash to their car, one in a long black coat, another wrapped to the nose in a rust-colored scarf. Holiday lights blink from trees, flashing across patches of salt-thawed pavement.
I make a spontaneous loop on a road that slants down past Ella’s bakery. You know, just to check up on it. It’s off the main drag but still humming with pedestrians. This town’s relatively safe, and you can walk pretty much anywhere even at night and not be afraid in the least. I pull a stop. It looks like she closed early, which is expected. I hope she made it home okay, at least before it got too bad out here.
The town’s installed a system of small blue lights that flash when there’s a parking ban. One casts a reflection on the front window signaling the impending storm, and snow continues to spit in my face. I’m not sure why I drive past here anymore. I guess it’s just an old habit I really need to break.
Home is just around the bend. When I pull in, I take my usual spot in the lot right next to my door. Beside me is a half-full bike rack and a handicapped parking sign. As I cut the engine, my phone rattles in my coat pocket. Again. I roll my eyes and tap the screen mechanically, not really wanting to answer.
But it’s not what I expect. It’s a text from Hadley, which hits my pulse first—then my brain.
car wont start want company?
* * *
I’m sunk in my chair watching television when I hear the feeblest knock on my door, happy that all of my appendages are thawed after kicking it weekend-style for two straight hours.
I almost hate to admit it but I’m psyched to see Hadley again. I mean, who wants to be company-less during a snowstorm? Not I. I just hope that hike wasn’t too painful. In any case, I do have extra blankets—and the heat’s cranked up to seventy-four.
Half self-conscious, half fidgety, I check my hair in the mirror. Then I get the door. The girl’s red faced and drenched. Frost coats her specs to the point of opacity. Ice is caked on her hat and it’s thick on her scarf. And that’s when guilt hits me. I should’ve insisted, demanded she accept a ride. What does this girl have against my bike?
The least I can offer is an arm around those shoulders, which she gets. I shut the door.
“You poor thing!” I snicker, hiding behind my hand. “You should’ve let me pick you up.”
“I’m not riding on that thing,” begins her monologue. “I’m so afraid they’re going to tow my car.” She sinks in that chair, unlacing her boots, her thoughts. I stay where I am, just listening. “It’s totally insane, I mean, I can’t believe it didn’t start. I just thought, why me, why now? Nobody made it in. And all night, why is everyone so angry all the time? I did my best and got atrocious tips. I’m just glad I don’t do this thing full-time—you know what I mean, serving.”
She slides one boot off. Her specs frost up again. She pinches the joints, lowering the frame to her skirt and clearing the glass before moving to the next heel.
“I tip well.”
With a shrug, I make my way to the kitchen.
“You do, Jess.” She’s behind me, following.
“Let’s see what I’ve got that’ll warm you up. Cocoa, coffee”—I shove things around for a better view—“and chai. What do you say?”
“Aren’t you the hostess?” She grins all smart-ass like, now close enough that I can take in her faded perfume. “Tea’s delicious. Thank you for this.”
I center that teakettle on a burner. She makes her way to the window. Though I wouldn’t call it a view per se, it is pretty as a postcard right about now, icicles yanking at gutters. Trees weeping, limbs drowning—even the stern and stubborn of them. She unwraps and unwinds and continues to liquefy.
“I’m getting your floor all wet. Towels still over here?”
“Hall closet,” I say.
And the kettle’s already shrieking at me. I drizzle it (steaming) into two huge mugs over bobbing bags. I’ve tied the strings around their handles. Then a spiral of spice: cinnamon, fennel, nutmeg, clove. I set them on the kitchen table and pull up a chair, hers first. I motion with the milk.
“I’m okay, I mean, just this way is fine.” She holds the mug with two hands, partially hidden behind it. I settle in my seat, and our eyes lock for a passing moment.
“Is it all right,” I ask.
“What, the tea? I mean, sure. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
She sounds drowsy.
“So maybe we can pick up where we left off? You know, I mean, what gives?”
I knew she wouldn’t let me off easy, but still. Why does she have to harp until she gets every last detail? I slouch. “Things just suck.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Not really.” I wink.
“I don’t mean to pry, but…you two split up, didn’t you?”
“It’s complicated.” I try to brush off the questions with a hasty blow on my mug.
“Isn’t it always. But I’m usually the first to hear when things go south. It bugs me when you wall up like this.”
None of my friends like Alicia. That should’ve tipped me off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She peers over her mug as if to ask, What for?
I trace the seams between boards on the table. “She stepped out on me.”
“You are joking.”
“She stepped out on me,” I repeat, frustrated. “A week ago. But, get this, that’s not even the best part.”
She sits closed off yet open at the same time.
“She slept with a guy.” I chuckle.
Then I get those eyes. That inquisitive stare. Deep. Sensitive. This girl could get secrets out of a CIA agent. She can get anything out of me.
“Dude, you told me so—go ahead and say it. The girl’s straight and I’m her big experiment.”
Aside from a hum of acknowledgment, she’s hush.
My knuckles crush my mouth. I glance outside. “She doesn’t even know what she wants—and the lies. Christ, the lies. This, though…” I start to recall a conversation I actually had with Alicia. “Fuck—it’s nauseating.”
“She’s foolish.”
“Whatever, it’s for the best. That’s behind me.”
“So,” she starts in. “You back to playing the field?”
“I’m back to playing nothing.”
Now I’ll get the lecture ending with, Oh come now.
“I’m done.”
“You’ll have three girls lined up before next weekend. You always do. I’m sure they’re texting you already. Word gets out, you know. You’re a catch, Jessie Miles.”
My eyebrows jump. She’s hit last name status. “We all have our sins. But, no.” Because I’m not even going to mention my professor earlier. She’d flip her shit.
Then she continues, “Exactly why I’m glad we never went there. I don’t like Alicia or what she did, but I tip my hat to the girls in your rearview mirror.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be here. Not back with them in your history book.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.” I mess her hair. “You look kind of…” I grunt. “Out-of-the-shower hot like that, but here, I’ll get you a blanket. At this rate, you’ll never dry.”
In the closet, a few blankets tumble down on me. When I get back, she’s at the window again admiring the snowscape. Her mug’s still frosting her specs. I flip the kitchen light off to watch as the storm takes over. Then I wrap a tartan blanket across her shoulders, leaning against the window myself until I zone out.
I feel eyes on me when she says, “It’s pretty awesome, wouldn’t you say?”
“That it is.”
“Have I ever told you my blizzard story?”
She’s the best person to be around when I need to get out of my head. She talks and talks about anything and everything.
“No, spill.”
“Well, you were all into…Who? I can’t keep track. I was with April, so this was before the ceremony and we wanted to do something different for the New Year. Just the two of us. No ball drop, no Lang Syne. I booked a couple nights at this really, really sweet bed-and-breakfast.” And then she turns. “Is it okay to talk about her, you know, like this?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“I don’t miss her or anything. Just for the record. I want to remember the positive, don’t you think?”
I nod.
“So we had three nights on the slopes. Night boarding under the stars. It’s incredible. You’ve never really lived until you’ve night boarded in Stowe.”
I’m thinking I have to do this one day.
Then she says, “Maybe you and I could do that. You know, one day.”
We’ve got a lengthy bucket list by now, and it keeps getting longer. The French Riviera and Notre Dame and Versailles, that’s hers. Vatican City, that’s hers as well. I only seem to remember hers.
“Not there, though. Somewhere better,” she says. “I’ll take you somewhere way nicer.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
That’s a pretty nice smile I get.
“So, you know me, I made reservations months and months ahead of time. Still, you never really know. Sometimes we don’t get a flake by then.” She takes a drink, speaking as she swallows. “Next thing you know, this fantastic storm rolls in. You must remember. You got it down here. So like this.”
“Yeah, yeah, I was house-sitting for you, right? That morning, damn, I wasn’t feeling too hot.”
Her expression is more than mildly critical.
“Somebody made martinis, strong ones. I can’t remember who.”
“I bet.”
“Dude, it was New Year’s. Sorry, go ahead.”
“Okay so we couldn’t leave. Nobody could. The innkeepers just let us all stay two more nights. That probably happens a lot up there, right? But, anyway, we had nothing to do. So we all hung out in this common room—me and April with four other couples. Playing board games. Charades.”
“You rock at charades.”
“I kind of do. So there we were, a room full of strangers stuck at this inn. And you’d think we’d all go mad. But we didn’t. It was really cool. We just talked and listened and talked. And some of the stuff that came out…You look at folks every day and you never really know what they’ve gone through or what they’re thinking. Who they are. You’re too busy living. Why does it take some sort of disaster to slow us down like that—to look at each other?” She won’t turn away. She wants an answer. “I mean really look at each other.”
I think about that for a millisecond, grateful she’s here for me tonight. She eventually turns back to the window. “I hear you,” I say. Her cup’s empty. I’m about to take it and mine back to the kitchen when I hear a knock. She looks to me like I should know who this is.
“Maybe a neighbor needs help,” I say. “I don’t know.” We don’t get it right away, like maybe it was the wind or something.
Then comes another but, this time, a heck of a lot brasher. I sense her next to me as I make my way to the door.
“Who is it?” I want to know.
“It’s me.” The voice is muffled, but I recognize it along with Alicia’s distorted features peering through the peephole. Shit.
I unlatch the bolt, and Hadley ducks to the dining room. I hang my head out the narrow opening. “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried. I kept texting. Did you get them?”
“A few.”
“Why didn’t you respond?”
I think that answer is obvious. Still, I’m struck because, mercy, why does she have to have the most erotic voice ever, and I’m hearing it again, which is so different than a cold text on a screen. It drives me sort of…I don’t know, and she knows that. Smooth. Southern. As if she just lit her cigarette afterward.
“I’ve been busy,” I lie.
“With what?”
“With work.”
“I haven’t seen you.”
“I’m on mornings.”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Snow blows in through the door. She’s shivering.
“What’s with the questions?” Post-breakup conversations are so much easier by text.
“It’s just that—it was dark. Your lights are out. Can I come in?” She’s reaching for my fingers, which are curled around the door. But her face hardens when dishes drop in the sink.
“I kind of, well…” Before I can think, my coat’s on and I’m heading out in unlaced boots.
“That was quick.”
“What are you talking about?” I figure whispering will shroud this drama from the neighbors. “Can you please keep it down?”
“Who is she?”
“You stepped out on me. Not vice versa. You’re not in a good position to be asking these questions.”
“You don’t even understand.” Why is she touching my cheek? Maybe I’m just reading into this. “Jess…I miss this.” I’m listening until it dawns on me that her words are slick as can be. “How do I say I’m sorry? I know I’ve said this ad nauseam. I wish you could physically feel this remorse.” She wets her lips, guiding my bare hand behind her coat. “I can’t breathe without you.” Nor can I, but I’m not about to bend.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“Why are you? Why can’t you believe me? That wasn’t me—it wasn’t.”
I hurt. And I’m starting to buckle, which is why I’m getting pissed. “Here you go. You fuck someone and regret it. There’s your closure.” I’m about ready to lose it. “Head home. Get somewhere safe.”
Still her eyes won’t let go and they’re welling up. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know. What’s done is done.” I’m relieved to sound semiconvincing, yet admittedly, I’m losing courage. “That sort of thing, it can’t be undone. You do know that, right?”
And while we stop speaking in words, we’re still having a conversation. She’s saying, Remember? I button her coat, and I am remembering. I purse my lips, searching for that anger. She’s saying, Let me in. And I want her just the same. Her hair glides between my knuckles. I’m saying, No, I can’t. Her chin falls. We find our voices again.
“Why’d you go home with him?” And there’s that sting in my eye. “You didn’t think that would hurt me?”
“I can’t say what I was thinking. I was—”
“No, wait, I don’t want to know.”
“But—”
“I really, really don’t want to know.” Her cheeks look raw. Her eyes glisten. I wipe her tears off with one singular index finger. And I enjoy it. I like seeing her this way. I want to hurt her more. I want to dig into my arsenal of don’t go theres. But I’m frightened by that side of me—the side that wants to break her down to the ground until she grovels.
So I just say, “It’s freezing,” and find that my tone is alas indifferent. “You’d better get off the streets before you can’t. Isn’t this your shift? What time is it?”
She says nothing. I walk her toward the parking lot. We pause. She kisses my cheek. It’s a good-bye; it feels it. Then she turns, walking into the storm. And she gets smaller and more hidden in the darkness. It feels colder. My rage whips away in a gush. I feel deserted.
I don’t go in right off. Instead, I watch as she makes that curve and vanishes, hair tangled in a twirl of flakes.
When I do make my way back, I’m greeted at the door. It’s a long, needy hug.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie as I step out of my boots.
“I made you another cup of tea, chamomile. Here, have my blanket.” And she drapes it over my shoulder the way I did for her before. Her eyes are prying again. They’re asking questions, but they don’t push. We settle into the couch, and I scoot down to rest my head on her shoulder. She knows what just happened, and she’ll be the first to hear when I need to talk. But that won’t be tonight. Right now, we can just enjoy this silent cup of tea together.
* * *
I can’t place this. “Jessie. Jessie.”
Huh?
“Jessie, the power’s out. The whole place is pitch.”
I bolt up, still in bed and still in a fog. “Huh? Are you serious?”
