Chapter 38
Cecily
We're three hours into our drive to Sierra Grande when Dom exits the highway to refuel Bernice.
We've been listening to his playlist on repeat.
His Vegas-themed songs make me smile, and his addition of "Bad Blood" by Taylor Swift made me laugh.
My favorites are the road trip classics, Bob Seger and Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bruce Springsteen and Fleetwood Mac.
Dom navigates Bernice off the dusty road and into the asphalt parking lot. I peer through the windshield at the gas station that, if it weren't for the fuel pumps, looks nothing like a gas station. "Are you sure this is a gas station?"
"There are pumps and people parked at them." Dom is looking too, trying to make sense of what we're seeing.
The gas station convenience store is called THE THING. The building is long and low slung, bricks painted in mustard yellow with ketchup red lettering. The vibe is slasher flick meets Ronald McDonald.
Dom eases Bernice into a spot vacated a moment ago by a van big enough to seat twelve, with windows tinted dark purple and faded lettering on the sides. It adds to the ambience of the place, and not in a good way.
Dom gets out and begins the refueling process, while I do a quick investigation on my phone.
"It looks legit," I tell Dom when he opens my passenger door. "This place is associated with a museum that claims to have mummified remains of a mother and her son. The Internet calls it a roadside attraction."
Swinging my legs from the car, I blink into the bright sun and stand. Tenting a hand over my eyes, I say, "No shade to mummified remains, but as roadside attractions go, I prefer Dom's Bulge."
Dom moves in closer, palming the side of my head. Lips hovering near my ear, he murmurs, "Funny thing about that attraction, it only appears for a certain person."
I pull back, feigning shock. "Hugh Jackman?"
Dom shakes his head and laughs, pulling me back in and pressing a light kiss to my lips. Thrill shoots down my spine. Look at us, kissing in public for no other reason than that we want to. What is happening?
"You are a very funny woman," Dom says, threading his fingers through mine. "Let's go into that weird place and see what we can find."
Turns out, THE THING is as odd as it sounds.
Wood paneled walls make it more gift shop than convenience store, but it still offers a large selection of snacks and a refrigerated section.
On every available surface is a tchotchke of some sort, and the walls have taxidermy animals with signs around their necks. Don't touch, I bite.
Dom picks up a stuffed jackalope. "I've never seen your apartment, but I strongly feel this guy has a home there."
I snag a navy blue hat with THE THING embroidered in bright yellow stitching. "Only if you promise to proudly wear this on your way to work."
Dom points behind me to a display with the same colors and theme. "Shot glasses, bumper stickers, coffee mugs, I could go all out."
In the end, we chose against the stuffed creature and swag. I opt for a crisp bottle of Coke, and Bugles, of course. Dom goes hard with a Gatorade and shelled pistachios.
"Turn your back," I tell him, when it's time to check out.
He frowns and gives me a look, but I show him my sternest eyebrows and he listens.
I grab a bag of candy rocks at the register and add them to the purchase, looking at the cashier and pressing my finger to my lips. The cashier winks and rings up our things.
"I'm turning back around," Dom warns, while he's already spinning.
"Go for it," I say, as the cashier hands me the thin plastic bag containing our items.
"Would you like to purchase tickets for THE THING museum?" She asks the question in the resolute tone of someone who is required to query every customer. "They are one dollar each."
There is no way I'm saying yes. That is exactly how people in horror movies die. This is the desert roadside equivalent of let's check out the sound we heard coming from the basement.
"Is that where the mummified people are?" I feel bad for the cashier. How many times in a day is she told no?
"Sure is," she answers.
Dom takes the bag from me. "Thank you for offering, but—"
"He's afraid," I tell her, taking the bag back from him.
"He looks afraid," she volleys, leaning around me and signaling for the next person in line to step up to the counter.
It's not until we're back inside Bernice that I reach into the bag and give Dom his silly present.
"It's no scorpion lollipop." I press the bag into his hand. "But it is a desert delicacy."
Dom turns the bag of speckled and muted tone chocolate rocks over in his hand. "These aren't really rocks, are they?"
"I'm not sure, but I don't think so. That would be pretty mean."
"Thank you." He gives the bag a shake. "I think you might be sweeter than you act, Cecily."
I gasp dramatically. "Blasphemy."
He reaches into the back seat for his backpack, tucking the candy rocks safely into a zippered pocket where he's been keeping the scorpion lollipop.
His bicep flexes when he replaces the backpack. Something akin to delight passes through me. I had this man in my mouth this morning. And he wants me. He's made it abundantly clear.
He starts the car and shifts into Drive. "The lollipop was a gift for defending you. And you already thanked me this morning in a way that was very generous and"—he pauses, thinking—"fucking lovely. What are the rocks for?"
I lean on the console, using my forearm for leverage to reach his cheek, where I plant a kiss. "For the way you defended me last night. I thought you hated my car."
He navigates to the freeway and picks up speed. "I do hate your car."
"That's what I thought! You were horrified that first day I picked you up in it." I cross my arms and nod, so proud to have been right about how much Dom hates the newly minted Miss Independence.
"I couldn't sit there and listen to them talk about a car you worked hard to get.
Even if they were just teasing you, there was an undertone of mocking.
I didn't like it." He rubs a hand over his jaw.
"I thought maybe they didn't know about how you ended up with that car, and if they didn't, they should be told. "
"You named my dad's car Teenager." I snicker. "It's so accurate."
"He took it well," Dom says. "Your mom stepped in and shaped the conversation from there."
"She did," I say, toying with the hair tie on my wrist. "Every day of this trip she shocks me. It's like I don't know her. Like she was black and white, and slowly she's coming into color."
"You sound melancholy about it."
"I don't feel melancholy about it." I don't think so, anyway. "Maybe I'm adjusting to this new side of her. Who knows how long it will be around. Maybe forever. Or only the duration of the trip."
"You don't want to get attached to the new version of her, because you don't trust it has staying power. If you let yourself care, it'll hurt when she goes back to who she was before."
Oh. Wow. Ok, yes. That's exactly how I feel. "How did you know that?"
Dom taps the steering wheel with the side of his thumb. "I have firsthand experience, unfortunately. Also, therapy."
I remain quiet, hoping this will be the moment Dom finally talks about his supposedly vanilla family.
"My dad is a character. In both good and bad ways.
He calls himself a showman, but it's just a gilded word he chooses because he can't bear to accept the truth about himself.
My childhood..." Dom trails off, and I'm so worried he'll stop talking.
I've been waiting for him to open up, and now that the moment has arrived, I realize how badly I want to know him.
"I'm listening," I say quietly.
He glances at me, breathing a hard, closed mouth breath.
"I love him, you know? But I don't understand him.
Growing up, things were never stable. I wasn't sure if I would come home and find my stuff in the back of his truck, because we had to move again.
Another fight with another landlord. It could be as simple as them asking my dad to mow the lawn more frequently.
It would set him off, and that was that.
My dad's a nice guy, but he can be a hothead.
He's calmed down since he's grown older.
" Dom reaches out to adjust the air vent, angling it away from him.
"Kids need stability. I know things happen, and people move, but it happened too many times.
It didn't take long before I saw he was the problem.
I promised myself I would do whatever it takes to not be like him.
I worked hard in high school, I did everything I could to get as far as possible from that mentality.
I was always afraid it was transmissible.
I couldn't believe it when I got a scholarship for college in New York.
It didn't cover everything, and every second I wasn't studying, I was working.
But I did it. I made it happen. I'm nothing like him, which should make me happy, but really, it just confuses me.
It's hard to love somebody who is so deeply flawed.
It's even more difficult when it's your parent. "
"What about your mom? Where does she fit into all this?"
"It would be easy to let my mom off the hook for everything because she is a really nice person.
But she enables him. She never seems to mind the way he lives life.
As a kid I wished for her to take a stand on my behalf.
I wanted her to do what was best for me, but she rarely did.
It was hard to let myself acknowledge my disappointment in her, because I know she loves me.
Our parents can love us, and still hurt us, and that's a difficult concept to grapple with. "
"You are so much further than me in your childhood trauma repair journey. You've realized your flawed parents are still lovable. I haven't reached that point yet. Instead of doing the work, I ran away."