55. Going Home
fifty-five
Going Home
I look at my cell phone again. It still says the same thing: “No Service.” I don’t know why I was expecting it to change. I haven’t moved.
“What am I even doing here?” I say to the endless blue sky. All around me are patchwork fields, farmland that stretches for miles, and the setting sun painting it all in hues of gold, pink, and purple—breathtaking. I wish I could enjoy it.
But I'm stranded.
No sign of civilization. No cell phone coverage. My car is dead. I’m sitting on the side of the freeway, in the middle of nowhere and it's getting dark.
Why didn’t I buy a new car when I had the chance?
I got out once and peered into the Nag’s inner workings. A complete mystery. I should have asked Jacob to throw in mechanics lessons with his self-defense class.
I called Mom as soon as I left the party. I casually asked about Jacob. She told me he and Laini were coming over for dinner on Sunday to say goodbye. He’s leaving early Monday morning for Iraq.
I don’t have a plan. I don’t even know how I’m going to get Jacob away from Laini long enough to talk to him. One way or another, I have to know. Kendra’s right. I can’t let Jacob go without telling him how I feel.
If he doesn't feel the same way I do, then maybe I can move on.
The way things are going, I’ll get home just in time to hear Jacob and Laini announce their engagement. Actually, if my luck holds, they’ll find my body, stripped and beaten, in some farmer’s field about April.
I weigh my options. I can walk or possibly run back to the last town I passed, but I don't know how far that is, and running down the freeway in the dark sounds like suicide. I could climb to the highest point I can find and try to get a cell phone signal. Or I can sit in my car and hope some Good Samaritan who isn’t also a crazed psychopath will happen by.
I lean my head against my steering wheel and pray someone will come.
It's quiet for a long time. I strain for the sound of another car, but all I hear is my breathing.
Eventually, far away, the distinctive sound of a big motorcycle thunders down the road.
I wait, not sure which side of the freeway it's coming from. If it’s on the other side, I won't be able to flag the rider down. It’s on my side, so I turn on my hazard lights.
The motorcycle—an old Harley, pulls up behind me and stops. The rider is wearing a leather fringed jacket, a red scarf, and black boots. My heart pounds and my stomach churns. I reach for the locket again, even though I know it's not there.
I check my door locks. Then I roll the window down just a couple of inches.
“Car trouble?” His gray handlebar mustache bobs up and down as he talks. My eyes in his mirrored sunglasses reflect fear.
His smile is friendly, but I have to swallow hard to keep my voice from shaking. “It just kind of sputtered and died and now it won’t start.”
“Pop the hood,” he says. “Let me take a look.”
My hands are trembling, but I obey. He tinkers with the engine for a few minutes. Then he walks back towards his bike. “I have some tools that might help.”
He takes a small toolbox and a large flashlight out of a leather saddlebag attached to his bike. I try not to think about how easy it would be for him to break my windshield with the tools he’s carrying.
“Try it,” he says after a few minutes.
I turn the key. It clicks. Under his breath he says, “At least it’s a Ford and not some foreign piece of...” He stops when he notices I’m listening.
A few more minutes more of tinkering and swearing under his breath. Then he says, "Try it now."
The engine turns over. It's running but making a churning sound, like it might die at any minute. He shuts the hood and walks back to my window. I roll it down a little farther.
“How far are you going?” he asks.
“About 200 more miles,” I say meekly.
He shakes his head. “Where are you coming from?”
“WSU.”
“Are you a student there?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“My youngest daughter graduated WSU last year. You kind of remind me of her. If you were her, I’d tell you to turn around and head back. I don’t think you’re going to make it in that car.”
I lean my head against the steering wheel. It’s fate telling me I should go back to my apartment—that I should forget all about Jacob.
He strokes the tip of his mustache. “I can follow you for a ways, but I’m worried about you making it over the pass.”
I consider his offer. If I can at least make it to the pass, I can call Dad to come get me. He’s won't be happy about it, but at least I’ll get home in time to say goodbye to Jacob.
“I think I’ll try to keep going,” I say quietly.
“I thought you might. My daughter probably wouldn’t have turned back either; she’s stubborn like that.” He sticks his hand through the open window. “My name is Jake, by the way, Jacob Watson.”
I shake his hand. I can’t believe the coincidence. “Thanks so much, Mr. Watson. I’m Jess Roberts.”
The knock comes while I'm standing in the kitchen talking to Mom. I hurry to answer it, but Jacob doesn’t wait for me to open the door. He steps inside like he belongs here. When he looks up, I notice two things. He’s completely shocked to see me, and he’s by himself—no Laini.
I smile. “You didn’t honestly think I was going to let you leave for Iraq without saying goodbye.”
He steps forward, wraps his arms around me, and holds me against his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?”
“She didn’t tell us either.” Dad comes up behind us, but Jacob doesn’t let go of me. “She just kind of showed up here last night.”
Jacob looks down. “Last night? Why didn’t you call?”
“It was pretty late.” My car limped home, barely on its own power, at about one o'clock in the morning.
“Did you find a new car?” Jacob asks.
I shake my head. “The Nag is still hanging in there.” I haven’t mentioned how badly my car is doing to anyone. I’m not sure how I’m going to make it back for class tomorrow.
Mom comes in from the kitchen. “Where is Laini?”
“She couldn’t come,” Jacob replies. I try not to look too relieved.
“Too bad.” Mom doesn’t sound disappointed. “We made salmon just for her.” I see the look that crosses Jacob’s face. He’s too polite to mention that he really doesn’t like fish. Mom sees it too. She pats his back. “We made steak for you. Everything will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Can I help, Mom?” I ask.
“No.” She keeps smiling at us. “Keep Jacob company while I finish. Hon, could you check on the steaks?" She heads back to the kitchen and Dad goes out to the grill. We're alone, at least as alone as we can be with my family in the next room.
Jacob slides his hands down my arms until he’s holding both of my hands. He stands back. “It’s so good to see you. You look great.”
“Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”
“How’s school?”
“It’s going okay. A little more work than I thought, but I’ll get used to it.”
“What about the social part of school?” He’s trying to sound casual, but I catch an edge of something in that question.
“Social part?” I ask innocently.
“You know, dates, parties, that kind of thing?”
“Oh,” I wrinkle up my nose and think of the one party I attended. “I haven—
“Steaks are perfect. Let's eat,” Dad calls.
Jacob drops my hands and follows me into the dining room. He pulls out my chair for me and then sits beside me. I catch him watching me while I’m eating.
It’s good to be home. Good to have Jacob beside me and my family around me. I wish I could make this moment last. But I have to get Jacob alone. I didn’t drive five hours for a family dinner.
When we’re done eating, I start to clear the table. “Leave those,” Mom says. “Today you’re a guest. I can take care of the dishes. Why don’t you and Jacob go sit and talk in the living room, or take a walk outside?”
“It’s raining,” Dad points out. “Besides, I wanted Jake to look at that old muzzleloader I’m restoring. You can come too, Jess.”
“I’ll help Mom and then I’ll be there in a little while.” I can feel Jacob’s eyes on me as I walk into the kitchen.
I don’t help Mom with the dishes, and I don’t go check out the muzzleloader. Instead, I slip outside and past the shed where Dad is telling Jacob about the newest gun in his collection.
I stand in front of the barn door again and catch my breath. Maybe the whole idea of recreating a moment from the past is over-dramatic, but I’m counting on Jacob to come find me.