Chapter 10 #2
I ignore the question because I’m not sure whether now’s the time to tell him it all depends on what he’s after—and possibly what I’m after too. I pause for a moment, peep into the most hidden corners of myself, see the things I normally never let out, decide to open up.
“I like making up fictional conversations in my head. I do it all the time. It’s only when there’s absolute silence that I find the right words, the ones that always escape you in the moment.
I find them and I can finally say all the things I keep repressed.
I talk to my mother and tell her that even if it’s selfish of me, I’m disappointed in her when I just see her fading away.
Or the way she seems to forget sometimes that she didn’t just have one kid and that I’m here, alive.
I tell my dad he’s a coward, and when I look at him, it’s like I’m looking at a complete stranger.
I remind them both that I’m not invisible.
I talk in my head with all the members of my family and with the rest of the world sometimes too.
If I’m honest, I’ve had conversations with you in my mind. ”
Will looks so serious, even moved, for a moment that I regret confessing something that lurks so deep inside me.
Maybe it looks ridiculous, coming from a twenty-two-year-old.
Or maybe he’s like everyone else and he just doesn’t care.
I get a sudden urge to take refuge in the cherry liqueur I just pushed aside, but his voice is so soft, it stops me.
“If you ever feel like you need to tell me something, I’d rather you actually do it. You know, so I have the chance to reply.”
I smile so wide, you could probably see it from space. “I’ll remember that, Will.”
“Just Will? No last name this time? That’s a step forward.”
“You deserve it after tonight.”
He shakes his head and stands. I catch the drift: He’s telling me the night’s over.
I wouldn’t mind staying here longer, letting him learn more about who I am, but my eyelids are starting to sink too.
I zip my coat and wait for him to turn off the lights.
Then the frozen air whips us. Even in spring, the cold won’t let up.
“I’ll take you home,” Will says.
“I don’t mind walking.”
“It’s a long way, and you’re freezing.”
“Cold is good for your skin, I heard that on this boring documentary about life in the Nordic countries and what people’s relationships were like there.”
He opens the car door and looks at me. “You getting in or not?”
“If you insist.”
He smiles but doesn’t say anything. In the car, I get the shivers, but soon the heat warms me up.
As we drive through Ink Lake, all the way to my house, the song “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” plays.
When he stops, I look at the front of my home, and it makes me sad.
I think of how modern, how full of promise it must have looked when my parents bought it.
Now it’s the shell for so many dead dreams.
“You mind pulling forward a couple of blocks? My granddad’s place is close by, and I’d rather sleep there tonight. He’s away, but I’ve got the keys.”
“As you wish.”
“Do you live alone?” I ask Will.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“At the RV park.”
“Wow.” I wasn’t expecting that.
“You disappointed?”
“Just surprised.”
On the other end of the city is a group of RVs parked on an overgrown lot like old Lego bricks that a child grew up and forgot in the yard. It’s the most depressing part of Ink Lake. No one wants to live inside of a shoebox in a place prone to tornadoes and storms.
“Why does that surprise you?”
“Because your car is probably worth more than your house,” I say.
“It was a gift. The car, I mean.”
“From who?” I’m full of questions tonight.
“My parents.”
“They never thought of buying you a home instead of—?”
“You ask too many questions, Greta.” He cuts me off without bothering to change the subject, turning the wheel. “Is this it?”
“It’s the one on the corner.”
When we get there, he doesn’t cut the motor. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I don’t mind sticking around for a while.”
Maybe he should, I think, but I’m not ready for that. I don’t know if I ever will be. So I say, “Yeah,” and unbuckle my seat belt. “Thanks for pushing me a little bit tonight, taking me out of my comfort zone. You didn’t have to, but you did.”
“It was fun,” he replies.
I open the door and the cold creeps in. Before I can make myself get out, I decide something. Who knows if it is a mistake or a step forward?
“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
“What?” Will asks.
“I always liked purple. Dark purple, like blueberries, or light like the sky before a storm, the color of lilies and precious stones, spinel, amethyst.”
I don’t let him answer before getting out, but his expression is as indifferent as always.
Or maybe it’s not indifference—maybe it’s serenity.
But I don’t buy it. His insistent composure tells me he’s stuck, that he has to hold back because he’s afraid of what he’ll do, and behind it, I’ll bet there’s an inner turmoil so loud it could make your ears ring.
I know because I feel that way myself. All the time.