Twenty
Twenty
“Do you realize that our country has the highest incarceration rate in the world?” I start off indignantly as Thomas concentrates on driving toward Portland.
“And that’s to say nothing of the incidents of police brutality!
There are millions of cases of physical and psychological violence, corruption, and abuse of power committed against American citizens, especially in communities of color.
It’s infuriating! How is it possible that we are in the twenty-first century, and we still can’t stop this national shame?
” Before vehemently shutting my laptop, I make sure to save the file with all my documentation for the article I’m working on.
I’ve decided to take it with me so as not to waste precious time, and I can have Leila take a look at it when we get there.
I put the laptop back in my bag along with a packet of documents I’ve gathered.
I take my water bottle out of the BMW’s cup holder and sip from it while I watch Thomas from the corner of my eye.
He’s nervous. I can see it in the way he drums his fingers on the steering wheel, in his skittish look, and in the way he keeps fiddling with his tongue piercing almost compulsively.
Plus, I know he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.
Last night, after I told him that I would go with him, he held me tightly in his arms, trying to convey with his body everything he couldn’t express in words.
And I did the same. I held on tight to his powerful shoulders, running my fingers through his hair and along the back of his neck with soft touches.
We stayed like that for a while until I asked him to stay and sleep over in my new apartment.
We spent the night together. Admittedly, there was a small part of me that didn’t want to do that, because, after our argument, I would have liked to have demonstrated a little more backbone.
But that would have been completely pointless.
In the moment, neither of us was capable of living up to some moral principle.
All we knew was an irrepressible need to feel one another, to touch one another, and to belong to one another.
Because that’s how the two of us find peace: being together.
And together, we also find the strength to face anything.
We’ve been driving for about forty minutes, and I’ve been trying to make conversation the whole time, but all I’ve gotten from him are lazy grunts.
“You hungry?” he asks impassively, his eyes fixed on the road and his right hand on the steering wheel. “There’s a truck stop a few miles ahead.”
We left the house without breakfast this morning. Thomas didn’t feel up to it; he was already very anxious, and I skipped my usual bowl of cereal in solidarity. But now I’m so hungry that I could plow through the snack sections of every convenience store in the state of Oregon.
“I am, a little bit.”
“Just a little, eh?” He takes his eyes off the road for a few seconds to look at me.
“So that wasn’t your stomach that’s been growling ever since we left…
?” He laughs softly, one corner of his mouth tilting up slightly.
I rub his shoulder and find myself laughing along with him, charmed by his smile.
We pull into the truck stop, park, and get out of the car. Thomas takes a few bills out of the pocket of his black jeans and puts them in my hand. “Here, get what you want; I’m gonna take a piss.”
I roll my eyes in exasperation. “ To pee , Thomas. People say, I’m going to pee , or better yet, I’m going to the bathroom .
Also, I have a job, I think I can pay for my breakfast.” I hand the money back to him and head for the doors with a triumphant grin.
“Do you want anything?” I ask him before going inside.
He doesn’t reply as he tucks the money back into his pocket. “Nah,” he says finally, “I’m good. A cigarette will be enough for me right now.”
I cock an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yeah, go on. I’ll meet you in there.” He urges me on with a wave of his hand.
When I get inside, I head straight for their small café area. When the waitress takes my order, I get an English muffin and a coffee. I sip it while watching a music video on the TV mounted on the far wall. The moment I bite into my English muffin, my phone goes off.
“Vanessa, this is your mother.” Her strident voice makes my ears ring.
“Yes, I know; you’re in my contacts. What’s up?” I answer, wedging the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I swallow my bite.
“I haven’t heard back from you about my dinner invitation.”
“It’s only been two days, Mom. And I’ve been really busy.” It’s partially true. And partially not. In actuality, I just haven’t made a decision yet.
“Of course, I understand that. But I would hope that amongst the thousands of commitments that populate your days, you could find a small opening for your mother, maybe? It would mean so much to me, Vanessa.”
I can’t help but give a snort inside my head because I can see the game she’s playing.
The same one as always: trying to make me feel sorry for her and then playing on my guilty feelings because she knows it will always work on me.
“Okay, Mom. I accept your invitation. Or rather, we accept. Thomas will come too, as you suggested, but I can’t tell you when.
Right now, I’m struggling to catch my breath between work and school commitments.
But I promise you that I will do my best to make time.
” I take a drink of my coffee and immediately wipe my mouth with a napkin.
“Okay, I’ll be waiting for you call, then.
In any case, I was thinking of making a reservation at Maple Garden.
Does Thomas eat meat?” she asks with a breeziness that feels so out of place for her, especially when she’s talking about the boy she kicked me out over.
But I choose to ignore this. I suppose this is her way of apologizing and trying to make a new start.
“I thought we were going to eat at home? But either way, he doesn’t have any food restrictions; anything will be fine.”
“Eating at home was the plan, but then Victor and I thought it might have felt too formal.”
So Victor will be there too…fantastic.
There’s a moment of silence, and then she adds: “Tell me, how are you doing? Is school going well?”
“It’s challenging, like always,” I answer vaguely, dusting muffin residue from my shirt.
“Well, you know, hard work always wins in the end.” It’s a mantra of hers that I know by heart.
“Yeah, I hope that’s true. At least then this will all have been worth it.
” I glance quickly at my wristwatch and decide it’s time for me to go.
We exchange a few more pleasantries before saying goodbye.
I finish my breakfast, put a tip on the table, and go to the register, but when it’s my turn to pay and I’m just about to reach for my wallet, Thomas materializes at my side.
He asks the cashier for a pack of Marlboro Reds and, without giving me a chance to do anything, also pays for my breakfast. The checkout guy gives him the receipt, and he crumples it in his fist before slipping it into his pocket with a sly little grin.
I glare at him, but he ignores me, deliberately.
As we head for the exit, he drapes an arm around my shoulders and kisses my left temple. “You always complain that I’m not gentlemanly. But when I do some gentlemanly stuff, you still complain. You women are all the same, never happy.”
“I hate those kinds of generalizations; don’t compare me to other women.
Also, sorry, but as far I know, you don’t work.
How do you pay for all this?” I gesture to his car before getting into it.
“The bike, the car… How do you always have cash on hand?” I fasten my seat belt and stare at him, waiting for a response.
“I run a human trafficking ring,” Thomas nonchalantly turns the key in the ignition and starts the car.
“Ha-ha,” I reply, not amused at all.
“I’ve had the bike for a while,” he answers with a more serious expression.
“It got pretty beaten up in the accident, so before I left the city, I had my friend’s dad fix it up.
He has a garage. As for the rest of it, my grandparents left a small trust fund for Leila and me that I was able to access when I turned twenty-one.
Since I already had the basketball scholarship, the first thing I did was buy this car.
But it spends more time with my sister than with me. ”
“Why did you decide to fix the motorcycle instead of getting a new one?”
“Because the last memory I have of my brother was on that bike.”
I feel a pang in my heart that I try to ignore. “Were you ever afraid to drive it again? After the accident?”
Thomas shakes his head, staring out the windshield with his left elbow resting on the glass of the rolled-down window.
“It’s an outlet that I need. I like pushing limits.
I like taking risks. And I like to cheat death.
Even basketball doesn’t give me the spike of adrenaline that I get when I take the bike out at top speed. ”
“You like cheating death even after what happened?” I murmur, gulping.
“Especially after what happened,” he answers gravely, and I can tell from his suddenly darkening look that it’s time to close this topic.
We spend the rest of the trip in silence: him lost in his own thoughts, me working on my article but always with one eye on him, trying to spot some microscopic change in his face.
After another hour of driving north, we finally get to Portland.
The atmosphere hovering around us isn’t what I would have chosen, but getting to delve into what was, until recently, his world, his nuances and habits, makes my heart swell.
And that’s why, when he suggests we take a tour of the city, I enthusiastically agree.
Even though I realize what is behind his proposal: fear of setting foot back in what was once his home.