Chapter 2 #2
Fuck, fuck, fuck—what the actual shit is happening to my stupid mouth? I keep saying shit I never, ever bring up, even with Fee or the boys who have known me my whole-ass life and know what happened.
"You did not attend, or could not attend?" Cadence asks.
"Couldn't."
No follow-up, but she does turn to look at me, searching me. Her expressions are hard—if not impossible—to read, but this look seems speculative, thoughtful. Like she's putting pieces together.
"So, uh. You don't have a bag or anything?” I ask. "No, like a purse, or a change of clothes?"
I watch her face go through a series of expressions I can read: confusion, a dawning realization, and then horror. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear." She covers her face with both hands. "Darn this impossible brain of mine!"
I shift closer to her. "Ah, shit, you forget it somewhere?"
"At the Crenshaws! It has my phone in it, in my wallet, my laptop, everything." She lets out a frustrated growl. "Stupid, Cadie. You're stupid. Stupid. Stupid." She repeatedly smacks herself in the forehead with a closed fist.
I seize her wrist and prevent her from hitting herself. "Hey, whoa, whoa. Easy, Cadence. None'a that."
She's panting raggedly, whimpering in her throat—nearly hyperventilating. "I forgot it! I forgot my bag. I forgot my bag."
She's still trying to hit herself, and my god, she's stronger than she looks. I end up holding both of her wrists and pulling her against my chest, pinning her hands between our bodies in a bear hug.
"Cadence, hey—hey. It's okay. It's alright."
She writhes in my grip, strong and wiry and soft and exploding with panic. "No! No! No! It's-not-it's-not-it's-not. I forgot my bag. I have to have my bag. I have to have my bag."
Fuck. What do I do? I've seen and had plenty of panic attacks and anxiety attacks in my life. My first cellmate in prison, Rick, had them all the time, and I learned by necessity how to help him through them.
But this?
I don't know what this is.
"Hey, Cadence?" I keep my voice low and soft, holding her flailing, thrashing form—which is sort of like trying to hold onto a mid-death-roll alligator…if alligators could be soft and sexy. "Try to breathe for me. Take one deep breath, please."
“No, no, no, no, no, no…" she whimpers, and then launches into a refrain of "I lost my bag, I need my bag."
Shit. I really wish to fuck I knew how to help her calm her down. It's fuckin'…what? One-thirty in the morning? But it doesn't seem like there's much that's gonna calm her down except getting that damn bag from Grand fucking Lafayette.
She's rocking back and forth, or trying to, in my arms, chanting about her bag. I'm not even sure how aware of me she even is, except as a vague feature of the world beyond her panic, or whatever this is. I just know I'll do any-fucking-thing to stop it.
"How about we go get your bag?" I say.
She stops rocking instantly. "Get it?" She turns tear-wet eyes up to mine, and fuck my entire world, but the look on her angelic face guts me to the core: it's look of pure, raw, ragged hope shining through tears of despair.
I am so, so, so fucked.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You need your bag, so let’s go get it."
"It is far away."
"That's okay. I don't mind. You know the way?"
"Yes," she whispers.
I slide my hand palm-to-palm with hers, thread my fingers through hers. Pull away and step carefully backward through the door into the hallway, tugging her after me. "C'mon, then, Gorgeous. Let's go get your bag."
"I am not gorgeous."
"Hell, yes you are." She's following me easily, now, sniffling and shuddering, eyes semi-vacant—this is a look I recognize.
It's the post-panic empty, shell-shocked lethargy.
I stop backing up and let her step closer, into my space. I try to find her eyes, but hers keep slipping away from mine like same-polarity magnets. I brush my thumbs under her eyes, swiping away her tears. "You with me, Cadence?"
Her gaze finds mine for a few seconds, and then she squeezes her eyes shut, and lets outa breath. "Yes. I am with you."
"Cool. C'mon, then. I like a nice late-night cruise." Good thing I didn’t start drinking that second beer, I guess.
I lead her through the house, out the side door, and to the garage.
Help her up into my truck. She still seems shell-shocked, making no move to buckle up, so I lean across her and click the seatbelt in place.
When I take my seat behind the wheel, she's in that position again—knees together directly over her feet, hands on her lap, back perfectly straight, eyes fixed sightlessly forward.
It takes ten minutes or so to get out of town, and then I can open her up a bit. It's a beautiful night, warm and clear, so I lower my window to let some air circulate in the cabin.
I notice Cadence turns her face toward the open window, eyes closing as the wind buffets her. "Want yours down?"
"Yes, please."
I roll all the windows down, and now her already-wild hair is fluttering and whipping like streamers.
Her eyes close, and she leans toward her open window; the tension on her face fades.
Tentatively, as if unsure whether she's allowed to, she lifts her right hand and drapes it out the window.
Gradually, as the miles pass, the lean of her head angles toward the B-pillar beside her seat, rests against it.
Twenty-five minutes later, I'm rolling through the darkened, quaint downtown area of Grand Lafayette. The stores are dark and shuttered, and the diagonal, on-street parking spots are all vacant. As much as I don't want to, I have to rouse Cadence so I can ask her where to go.
We come to the stoplight at the north edge of town, and I stop for the red. Rub her shoulder gently. "Cadence?"
This time, she responds immediately; with a soft snort, her eyes flick open and find mine. "Riley." She looks around, confused. "Oh. We are here."
“Yeah, this is Grand Lafayette. Can you tell me where to go from here?"
"Yes." She sits up, scans the intersection, and then points left. "That way."
Turns out the Crenshaws live on the west side of town in one of the wealthier neighborhoods, where all the houses are waterfront properties worth half a mil minimum for the dumpiest piece of shit on the street.
The Crenshaws’ house is stunning, a mid-century modern masterpiece, all dramatic angles and acres of glass letting in natural light.
Now, obviously, it's dark. I pull into the driveway, shove the shifter into neutral, and yank the parking brake, leaving the engine idling. "You wanna go up, or you want me to?"
"I do not know if I can." She stares out her window, looking at nothing. "It is enough that you have driven me all the way here, but I simply cannot make myself go back there. Not after my behavior. And now this."
I pat her hand. "I got it. No worries. Back in a sec."
I trot up to the front door, hesitate, and then ring the doorbell.
A good thirty seconds pass, and then a light blinks on.
Locks thunk open, and then the door swings open inward.
A grumpy, sleepy old man stands hunched before me in baggy blue-and-white-striped boxers, calf-high black socks, and a thin white terry cloth robe, open and unbelted.
"May I help you, young man? Do you know what time it is? "
"Yes, sir, and I apologize for showin' up like this at this hour. I'm a friend of Cadence's, and she believes she forgot her bag here. If I could just grab that from you, I'll be outta your hair."
He frowns at me. "A friend of Cadence's?" His brow scrunches, the frown deepening. "That seems unlikely. Forgive me, young man, but you do not seem like the type of person Cadie would be friends with."
"That's fair enough," I say with a laugh, pivoting out of the way so he can see my truck with Cadence in the front seat.
When Mr. Crenshaw and she make eye contact, she drops her gaze immediately and covers her face with both hands.
"See? She's kind of embarrassed about the whole thing.
But she's pretty upset about the bag, y'know? "
He stares me down, blatantly assessing me. "Young man, Cadence is not like other girls. I—"
I cut in. "Sir, I mean no disrespect. But really, I just want to get her the bag, okay? I know you probably know her way better than I do. I'm just a friend trying to help her out. That's it."
He harrumphs, staring me down another moment, and then nods. "I'll need to speak with her first."
He bends down, somewhat laboriously, and picks up a bag—it's an ancient, battered satchel made of olive-drab canvas and supple, well-worn leather straps. An antique, I think. Ex-military, maybe. It's a cool piece, whatever it is.
I let him precede me to the truck; he approaches the passenger side and gives Cadence her satchel, which is bulging with her belongings. "Cadie, my dear?"
Cadence won't look at him. "Mr. Crenshaw. I beg your forgiveness for my behavior this evening. It was inexcusable."
He reaches in and pats her shoulder affectionately.
"Nonsense, dear. I'm sorry we couldn’t help. It’s just that Mary and I would never forgive ourselves if something happened to you over there and we'd helped facilitate it.
If you change your plans for somewhere more safe, we'll gladly help you with any amount of money you need.
But there? I'm so sorry, I know how much it means to you, but we just can't. It wouldn't be right. "
She nods, gaze on her lap. "I understand. You must follow your conscience. As I must follow mine."
"This friend of yours…." he glances at me—I'm leaning my ass against the hood, waiting. "Do you feel safe with him?"
She nods. "Oh, yes. Quite." Her eyes lift and meet mine through the windshield—briefly, as ever. "He has been very kind to me. You need not worry for my safety."