The Road Trip Rewind

Chapter 6 - Rocco

Chapter 6

Rocco

Monday, December 27, 1999

Isit in the car for a few minutes after Trix . . . Beatrix leaves, gaping at all the bizarre and inexplicable shit outside the passenger seat window—the people, signs, stores that don’t belong here on Sunset, not anymore—and then stumble out to follow Beatrix’s path toward Tower Records. I should have left as soon as she did, but I’m too numb to process any of this at a normal speed.

Why does everything look like we’re . . . back in the ’90s?

Are we dead? Is this purgatory?

I remember that big flash, then . . . nothing. Clearly, it’d been a car crash, despite the lack of visible evidence. What other options are there? We crashed, and now I’m dreaming or hallucinating or some trippy shit like that. Or are we . . . somehow dreaming and hallucinating together? Is this some kind of shared episode? Surely that’s impossible, right?

Though every option feels impossible.

There’s nothing possible about this.

I trip on my way up the curb, save myself just in time from face-planting. No one in the crowd outside the store seems to notice my near miss. Which makes me wonder . . . can people even see me here?

Am I a ghost now? An invisible voyeur?

Too many questions to process.

Especially right now, when all that matters is finding Beatrix.

As I try to snap back into reality, or purgatory, or whatever kind of fresh hell this place is—because let’s be honest, that’s probably where I’m headed when my timecard’s up—I push through the doors to see Beatrix staring blankly at some cashier, a guy who looks like his sole life aspiration is to land a gig in a Weezer cover band. If something was already said, I missed it. But the strange tension between them is palpable.

I edge in closer, give Beatrix a light elbow bump. “C’mon, let’s get back to Delilah.”

She doesn’t acknowledge me, but the cashier does a double take. So he does see me. One question answered, at least. Only about a thousand more to go.

“Wait. Shitballs.” He beams at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Are you . . . a Riziero? Like a much older brother? I’m loving the last season of The Whiz of Riz! Just catching up on the VHS. Also, between us,” he’s stage whispering now, loudly and not at all discreetly, “I took a very large ganja butter on sourdough toast, and everything is a bit wonky. Shhh. Our little secret, okay? I didn’t believe my roommate because he’s usually a lightweight but boy, was this batch strong.” He looks at his hand, waves it in front of his infrared scanning gun. Giggles.

Beatrix, meanwhile, has backed away from us both, and is pacing the New Releases aisle, mumbling to herself about where she was and who gave her what album and when.

I feel unequipped to deal with any of this.

High Cashier Boy clears his throat, and I pretend not to notice. He talks anyway. “No offense, dude, about you being the older brother. I didn’t even know there was a third Riziero! Or are you an uncle or something? Their pop?” No pause for me to answer, not that I would; he takes a quick gulp of air and steamrolls on. “You manage them or anything? Produce any of their stuff? It’s got to give you hella more options for work inthis town. Who needs a young, pretty face when you get to pull the strings, am I right?”

This guy has zero filter. I can’t imagine the weed food is helping matters, but I get the sense he’d always be grating.

“Ha, well—”

“That’s rad,” he cuts me off, “keep your identity and get all the money. Smart. And hey, if you ever need a punky looking young guy for anything, I’m also an actor.” He preens with this, grows at least an inch. Making him all of, oh, five-five, if he’s got on thick soles.

“Of course. I’ll be sure to circle back on that.”

Never happening. Hopefully, first and foremost, because this Tower Records time vortex deal is for a very limited time only. Much as I loved this place, I loved it when it was actually meant to exist. But also because he called me old, obviously. I bet he’s even older than me now, in the real world and time, probably balding, wearing a polo shirt and khakis, selling Encyclopedia Brittanicas.

He leans in, way too damn close, whispering again, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about this meeting. Be that elusive Riziero, hell yeah.” His breath smells like a heady blend of Mountain Dew and Fun Dip. “And FYI, I like to get psychedelic, too. Seems your friend here is tripping pretty dang hard. You have a good connect? I can always use more.”

I shrug my shoulders, like I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. As I glance around, plotting my escape, my eyes pass over a sign by the register. A corporate sign about unplugging all registers for Y2K.

Y2K.

My brain compresses and squeezes out an order, the system clearly malfunctioning: Tonight we gonna party like it’s 1999.

I laugh quietly. It bubbles up, and I can’t seem to stop.

High Cashier Boy follows my gaze to the sign. “You’re whacked out about this whole ’99 business, too?”

I laugh, more loudly now, as I back away.

Because Y2K happened seventeen years ago.

This can’t be happening.

I move quickly toward the aisle and grab the now almost catatonic Beatrix by the hand, steering her back out the door.

We return to Delilah—which thankfully hasn’t been towed—and as I slide Beatrix into the driver’s seat, she seems to instantly snap out of her trance. Huh. This car really is her everything. Her center.

I’m envious of that. I’m fairly certain that even if my Maserati were here with us, I’d still be feeling equally out of my mind right now.

“My dad’s folder,” she says. “You have it?”

I focus—one thing at a time. Check the side door. Still there, thank god. It might not be much, but I know Beatrix well enough to understand that every tiny bit matters. Even these scraps.

She nods at me, relieved. “Put it in the glove box, will you?”

“Sure.” I tug it open and find that it’s of course pristine. Relic driver’s manual, a few napkins, a pack of plastic silverware. I carefully fit the folder in, making sure not to jam any edges, then snap the door shut. “So . . . why don’t we try to get back to my house? We can regroup there.” I’m desperate to grab at some sense of normalcy, even if odds seem slim that any regrouping will be possible. I mean, we’re either time travelers or we’re dead. No safe, easy option.

She looks at me with those steely gray eyes, a deep stare that I can only describe as soul searching—deeply fucking penetrating, really, and in a mildly torturous kind of way. Like she’s trying to look straight into my body, stripping back each layer one by one, with no remorse, until she unearths my mostly hollow core.

“Right. Your house. Because you somehow think you’ll be able to get to your gaudy rich-boy mansion from 2016 in . . . 19-freaking-99? HA!”

I’m shocked that laugh didn’t shatter Delilah’s windshield. My eardrums may never recover.

“And here I thought I had lost it! Don’t you get it, Rocco? One or both of us is obviously dead—or dying at least. Hallucinating in some kind of hellish in-between state. And since I know I’m here and present, I must be imagining you. Which makes my brain super vindictive, if this is how it’s making me spend my last sentient hours. Or . . . we’re both caught up in some absurd time-travel scenario, which I’m pretty sure you don’t buy into either, because why would you suggest something so outrageously, outlandishly, utterly stupid?”

I take a deep breath. Wish she would do the same. Don’t dare suggest it. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking the same thing. Dead or Dr. Who. I’m trying my best to be rational about the most irrational thing that’s ever happened to me. Is Delilah related to the TARDIS?”

“Ha. Very funny. And so rational. Why, may I ask, are you even acting and not off winning the Nobel Prize in physics or something like that?”

Yikes. There’s the bully I know and used to . . . well . . . like, let’s say. Though to be fair, she’s not wrong right now. This is a stupid idea. Nonsensical, given the circumstances. But I can’t think of anything else to do. And everything about this is nonsensical.

“I don’t have any other ideas,” I admit. “Might as well see if there’s a glitch in the matrix. Let’s just . . . take it step by step? At the very least, we know we can drive to the ocean. That hasn’t moved in millions of years. Guaranteed it will be there.”

My attempt at levity seems lost on her, based on the severe frown she dishes up.

“So, you’re saying we drive off into the ocean if all else fails? I suppose if we’re dead already, we can’t die again. Hm. You know what? I like this contingency plan of yours. Because if I have to serve purgatory time with you, I might as well try to move along into the next phase of my afterlife. Alone, hopefully.”

“That is . . . so dark. And also rather mean, don’t you think?” I sound like a sulky child, but I can’t seem to help it. Not with her.

“Well,” she says, shrugging, “it’s true.” Somehow that earnest shrug makes it even worse. “What did I do to deserve being in this place now? With you?” She tosses her hands up, smacking them against Delilah’s ceiling. Then, without another word, she puts the car in gear and veers back onto Sunset.

Other than a few direction notes, we ride in silence. No signs of present-day 2016 life, even as I desperately scour the view for any scrap of evidence proving otherwise. No one texting while driving, just some good old-fashioned CD changing. A lateral move, still dangerous and distracting. Damn, I was good at it, though. I used to keep a spindle of CDs in my cup holder to flip through while I was pounding In-N-Out burgers into my mouth—simultaneously checking the mirrors for my next lane change, thumbing through my Thomas Guide to get to an audition. Those were the days, weren’t they?

And, apparently, they’re back. Only I’m an old guy this time around. A supremely confused old guy.

The turn onto my road is quite different from when I left this morning. Unpaved. Overgrown. Beatrix fidgets in her seat at every pop from a rock on Delilah.

“This is terrible for her suspension,” she says finally, breaking the silence. “And her paint job.”

“Don’t worry, your girl seems to take a licking and keep on ticking . . . you know, like the old Timex commercials? Were they from the ’90s?”

No smile, but no frown either. I’ll accept that.

When we make it to the end of the road, my “gaudy rich-boy mansion” is nowhere to be found, just as Beatrix suspected. The hill overlooking the Pacific is still there, of course, but an old Airstream and a handful of ramshackle sheds and fenced-in pens are littered across the property. No vehicles in sight.

I climb out and decide to brave a perimeter walk, Beatrix tagging along behind me, just to see if there’s anyone here, or if there are any memorable pieces of rock or terrain that could be of use. Maybe I could leave a message for our future selves . . . a thought that’s so absurd I can’t quite believe it’s my own. But just in case we aren’t already dead or sharing a timeline in purgatory—another absurd thought, absurd on top of absurd, a tower of it that surely has to give at some point, soon—it feels like I have to at least try something.

“I don’t have a good feeling, trespassing like this,” Beatrix says as we’re nearing the edge of the overlook.

There should be a protruding rock I’ve always called The Surveyor, because I’d sit on it and lose myself whenever I needed a good brain cleanse. One would assume, at least, that a giant rock sticking out of the ground would still be here, if this is an accurate re-creation of ’99.

And yep, there it is. My good ol’ trusty thinking bench.

Beatrix starts back toward Delilah before I can attempt any reassurances. Not that I really have any. How the hell should I know what might happen? Instead I just watch her walk away, that supremely pissed off, purposeful stomp of hers. I try to roll my memories back to ’99, everything I knew about her then. Was she always so goddamn terrifying?

When she’s nearly at the car, she turns around to face me. “I’m serious, Rocco!” she yells out, surely alerting anyone who might be on the premises of our existence. But there’s no movement in response, no sound. Maybe we really are alone. The Airstream does look rather haggard. “I know we might be dead,” she continues at the same volume, “and this is somehow almost two decades in the past, and nothing about any of this makes an iota of sense, so who knows what consequences there might be. But this doesn’t feel right. I want to leave.”

I don’t want to leave, but that feeling pales in comparison to not wanting to further piss off Beatrix. She’s all I have right now. My only connection to 2016. And to my sanity—at least what’s left of it. “Fine!” I shout back. “There’s a liquor store down the hill, right across from the beach. Let’s reconvene there. Make a plan. Just give me a second.” I squat down, grab the pointiest pebble in eyeshot, and get to work scratching TS, for The Surveyor, as deep as I can on the bottom edge of my rock. If we’re time traveling—impossible, but still, might as well play the game—it’ll be a nice Easter egg to know we came through to the other side. And if we are dead, well, then add vandalism to my list. Further evidence to send me straight down.

As we’re settled back in Delilah, Beatrix seeming temporarily mollified, and pulling down the . . . street is too generous a word . . . the vehicle path, we pass a guy in a beat-up red ’57 Chevy pickup. I recognize the ride but can’t instantly put my finger on it. The driver—a sun-wrinkled white guy with big shades and a graying ponytail—and we do the slow stare at one another as we drive by, and then it clicks. The pickup, the location. I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots straightaway. My brain’s working on a steep delay.

“It’s my neighbor! Tony Vasco, an old hippie who’s been hopping around these hills since the great ’60s and ’70s Laurel Canyon days. Holy shit, Bea, this is so weird. I mean, even weirder than everything’s already been.”

Beatrix turns to me, gray eyes as wide as I’ve seen them. “That’s your neighbor? From 2016? Alright, I need that drink immediately, please. And also, no one calls me Bea.”

I keep rolling on, mind buzzing from this development. “He rubbed elbows with Joni Mitchell, CSN, the Byrds, Tom Petty, just about every other musician who made their way around these parts. He cowrote, produced, did whatever it took to be included in the fun. I totally forgot he’d mentioned owning more of the hill once, before parceling it out. He tells a lot of stories—they can blur a bit. But this is great news, since I know him! Well, I didn’t in ’99. But he’s a sweetheart. We should come back later.”

Beatrix looks puzzled, brows pinching together as she navigates through to the end of the path. “Later? What do you mean?”

“He’s an old hippie, we could totally crash with him tonight. He’s not going to slit our throats or anything, I assure you. He likes to drink and tell stories, so we’ll just bring some booze and pretend to be curious fans. Or at least I will. You can leave the acting to me. But this way we’ll get some sleep, and hopefully have more clarity when we wake up. If we wake up, anyway. Here or anywhere. Whatever comes next after this day.”

Beatrix bites her lip—a full, soft-looking lip, a lip that suddenly looks so familiar I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her the second I saw her again, that first lunch with Lanie—seemingly pondering my idea. Which is a start, considering she has an intense dislike for most things I say. Understandable, considering our past. And present.

I press further, determined to win this particular battle. “If we try to sleep on the beach or some random parking lot, we’ll get picked up by the cops. This way, we can have some protection and privacy while we figure out our next move.”

“Fine,” she says, not looking at me. “I hope you’re right about Tony. I don’t want to double die yet.”

“Agreed,” I say, grinning at her. “For once.”

We arrive at the tried-and-true local liquor store that’s been around for over forty years. Even with my limited New Jersey public school education, I could confidently do the math to know it’d be open now.

“What’s your poison these days?” I ask Beatrix as we climb out of the car.

“I’m partial to bourbon. They had Maker’s in ’99, right? I drank mostly cheap vodka then. Unless you were paying.” She wrinkles her nose as she says this, that stink face of hers that is somehow more endearing than should be possible.

“Pretty sure they had that back in the ’90s. Jim Beam for sure. Tony subscribes to bourbon, too. Probably has a more sophisticated palate in 2016, but I think he’s an equal-opportunity whiskey guy.”

As we head inside, I’m realizing the wad of money stuffed in my wallet is, well, new money. I pull it out discreetly to confirm: a couple crisp hundreds and some fresh twenty-dollar bills. Shoot.

“You have any older bills on you?” I ask quietly as we peruse the whiskey aisle.

“Whoa, these prices are wild, so cheap! What a nice perk to this time-travel shitshow!” She laughs to herself, loudly. Causing the elderly Black woman at the counter to look up from her Entertainment Weekly. The woman must want to keep her finger on the pulse of anything at all, seeing as she looks every bit of ninety or above. Beatrix combs through her backpack, coming up with a crumpled old five and two equally dingy singles. Good enough. Hopefully the woman won’t be able to read the fine print.

“Okay,” I say, pulling us farther down the aisle, “so I have a plan that involves just a tad bit of stealing. I’ll ask for some nips of Jack Daniels while you stash a bottle of the good stuff in your bag. I bet this woman can barely see a foot in front of her. We’ll pay for the nips and ‘borrow’ the Maker’s.”

Beatrix smirks. A pouty pinch of her lips that would admittedly be very attractive in any other situation. With any other two people, that is.

“We’re really leaning into the nostalgia now,” she says, that smirk twisting up to somehow look even smirkier. And, damnit, even sexier. “It feels very ’90s of me to be stealing a bottle of booze. I swiped a few cigars from my dad back in the day. And one time, on a dare, I walked out of an Abercrombie with a set of puka shell bracelets. I got caught, of course. Put on a list so I was never allowed back in again. Good thing I despised that place and their heinous short shorts. No loss.”

I’m speechless for a moment. What a badass . . . kind of? “Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “harness that feeling, and let’s try to not get caught this time. Once you grab the bottle, come right up behind me, and we’ll walk out together, okay?”

Beatrix nods and gives my hand a quick little slap, unexpected but far better than most exchanges we’ve had, at least in 2016. As for 1999, the original time around, I recall touching much more than just hands....

“Okay, let’s do it,” Beatrix says.

I nod and make my way to the counter, calm-and-cool-guy mode fully on. Definitely not thinking about where Beatrix and I touched back in the day. “Hello there, ma’am, I’d like to get seven nips of Jack Daniels, please.”

The old woman, who can apparently hear well enough, as she gets it on the first go, reaches into her fishbowl of alcoholic fun and counts out seven nips. “Seven Jacks, seven dollars,” she says tersely, glancing up from the register. Her eyes narrow at me. She’s perhaps not as unaware and unassuming as I’d hoped.

Just then, Beatrix waltzes up and loops her arm around mine. Her backpack, now loaded with a bottle, swings into my side. “Thanks for the Jack, sweetie pie. Seven should do us just right for a rowdy evening together.”

I must look uncomfortable; the unexpected PDA has me on edge. Sweetie pie. The old woman’s eyes narrow further. “Ha-ha, you’re funny, dear,” I say, slapping the money down so we can get the heck out of here. “Thanks so much, and lovely establishment you got here. Best of luck on another forty years.”

The woman looks peeved at that remark, or maybe it’s just her go-to resting face. “I may be older than dirt, but we’ve only had this place for twenty-four years. And I’ll be lucky to make it to twenty-five.” She scoops the bills off the counter, deposits them in the register, and reopens her magazine. A clear end to this transaction.

With that we’re out the door and back in Delilah, giddy with the rush of juvenile theft as we head across the street to stare at the waves and drink some nips. Liquid courage for whatever’s to come. The Pacific looks angry today, especially fierce. Big waves, bigger riptide. I let it all sink in as we sit in silence: the rhythmic crash of waves, the salt-steeped air. This place feels like the only constant I still have. Other than Beatrix, that is. But I’m still not sure how she factors into this equation.

We linger for a while, not talking much. When the sun lowers and the air starts to cool, I nod to Beatrix, and we start back toward the car.

“You’re sure this is the right move?” she asks, glancing over at me with an almost smile. Tipsy, obviously. She would never look at me so pleasantly otherwise. We only had two nips of Jack, but it must have gone right to her head on an empty stomach. Those muffins were a lifetime ago now. Seventeen years, to be precise.

“I’m sure!” I say, at least mostly convinced, in my most confident of voices. “He’s super friendly. I’m sure he hosted all sorts of strangers during the old party-time days.”

I insist on driving this time, and Beatrix doesn’t fight me. We wind back up the car path slowly, little stones plinking and popping at us. As we arrive at the base of my, well, Tony’s driveway, we’re struck by giant floodlights that force me to slam on the brakes. A familiar voice yells out, though I can’t make out the words.

I’m relieved—until he steps up alongside my door holding a shotgun. Perhaps not quite as “chill hippie” as anticipated, at least not back in the day.

“Who the hell are you and why the hell are you on my property?” Tony grumbles, just as I’m rolling down my window.

Beatrix doesn’t move. Her hands clutch her seat belt, white knuckled, as if that could do anything to save her.

Not that I’m worried we need saving. At least not from Tony. From this whirlpool of time? Now that’s an altogether different story.

“I sincerely apologize for the intrusion,” I start, forcing a smile, “but I’m a bit of a music junkie, and I heard about a spot in these hills where all the great Laurel Canyon bands would come and hang out.” Tony’s face softens, his gun arm lowering a few inches. “We were hoping to get a glimpse, that’s all. We didn’t know it was private property. Just found the general vicinity from an AOL chat. I’m . . . Rudy, by the way, and this is Trixie.”

“Well, okay then!” He grins, gun now at his side, seemingly forgotten, thank goodness. “Nice to meet you! I’m Tony. Didn’t I see you coming down my driveway a couple of hours ago? I remember the VW. Anyway, you hip seekers are in luck! This hill is where a lot of the magic happened. Musically, that is, though plenty of other stuff, too.”

I laugh, probably a little too hard. I’m not winning any Academy Awards for this acting job. But still, I know what strings to pull. “If you have any time for us, we have a bottle of Maker’s to share for some stories?”

Tony’s grin spreads wider, a five-mile smile that’s deeply contagious. So earnest and genuine. He loves the good old days, loves telling stories about them even more. The Maker’s was just the cherry on top to secure the deal.

“Come on, park up top. Over by my truck.”

I glance at Beatrix, who still looks mildly terrified—probably related to any number of horror flicks where this inevitably ends in a gory hack-job. Then I nod at Tony anyway, because we’re in it now, one way or another, and roll up my window as I pull over to where he’s parked.

This will be fine. It’s got to be.

“I’m scared,” she says as soon as we park, reaching her hand across the center console to grab mine. Her grip is cool and clammy and excessively tight, but I don’t pull away. “I know he’s your neighbor and all, but he had a gun.” Her voice ratchets up louder with each word, that “gun” really ringing out. I have to keep her calm—I don’t want Tony to get the same idea about a possible slasher flick materializing on his property. Frankly, even considering that gun, Beatrix is still the most frightening person here. At least in my humble opinion.

“Trust me,” I say, squeezing her hand in what I hope is a reassuring way. “I’m sure it’s to scare off animals. If there were shallow graves, I’d have found them on my lot by now.” She doesn’t crack a smile, so I give another squeeze for good measure. “We need to sleep and eat, Bea, if we have any chance of figuring out what the hell is going on with us. And I can guarantee you, he’ll ask to feed us. All he does is cook. In his big house . . . that doesn’t exist yet. Shit. Well, maybe we’ll just eat the L?rabars I’ve got stashed in my bag. Nope, never mind, left that in my car. And before you can make a wiseass cut at me, no, I’m not a Paleo bot. I just like nuts and dates, thank you.” Her lips edge up this time, very nearly a smile, but she immediately clamps it down.

“Fine,” she says. She turns to look away from me, off toward the horizon—that sharp edge where land meets water meets sky. “It’s been a long time for me, lingering over your infidelity or whatever, so . . . trusting you is still hard. But I guess I have no choice, do I?”

“Bea.” I sigh.

“Rocco.” She sighs back, louder.

“I recognize I was a little shit, and kissing Piper was wrong, but we hadn’t ever defined things, had we? Like I told you, I never liked to mess around on people. Wasn’t my thing. But we hadn’t talked about what we were doing, you and me. There wasn’t a label.”

“I wouldn’t have kissed someone else. Wouldn’t have even considered it. What we had was too real to me. But . . . you’re right. You couldn’t break something that didn’t exist in the first place.”

With that she drops my hand and throws open her door, steps out of the car.

I get out, too, and we walk silently over to Tony, who’s been leaning against the hood of his truck, waiting. Eying us curiously, but wise enough not to poke at whatever’s happening between us.

With a nod, he leads us down to the end of the property, where there’s already a bright fire going and, lo and behold, a giant rack of ribs, a trough of roasting vegetables, and a pot of refried beans. Classic Tony. More food than he could ever imagine eating by himself, even if we seem to be his only guests. Beatrix and I settle in on what appears to be old minivan seats that circle the firepit.

“This,” Tony starts up, “was the campout spot in the hills for all those cats! Jackson Browne, CSN, Joni, and, of course, the Monkees.” You can practically see the memories flooding through Tony’s brain as his eyes glaze over; he’s gone for the next minute or so, lost in another time. A feeling I know too well.

“I’ve heard about the epic bonfires up here,” I say when his eyes regain their focus. “Mama Cass herself bringing an ice chest for the deli meats she shared with Cros.”

Tony nods appreciatively as I hand over the bourbon, taking a long swig straight from the bottle before launching into the story of his life—the long version, no cuts. Beatrix seems to warm up after a couple of swigs herself. Whatever happened between us in the car has thawed, at least temporarily.

The night rolls on with Tony and his stories of the good old days. He serves us food and is unfailingly the kind, cool guy I know him to be. I’m glad I did something right—today, at least. Though I feel a small pang of guilt about lying to him, as he’s so trusting himself. Options were limited, though. And damn, these ribs are good....

“And that’s when I get a call from a drunk John Lennon,” Tony says, beaming over the nearly empty bottle, “asking if he and Nilsson could come over to sober up. When I tell you they were drunk, it’s an epic understatement. Speaking of, I’m pretty loaded myself. But this was fun. Thanks for finding me here and for being hip cats. Dig? You can just pass out here, of course. I’ll probably be gone by the time you get up. Hunkering down by Big Bear in the woods for that Y2K millennium shit. But you’re welcome to camp while I’m gone, whatever you need. Just don’t fuck with my shit. Peace!”

And with that, he’s disappearing in the darkness off by the Airstream, and we’re alone again.

“Rocco,” Beatrix says then, quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m just . . . so confused. With and without the bourbon. Why are we here? In the past? This specific past? The old days with you? I don’t understand.” She lays her forehead on my shoulder. I’m momentarily stunned by the contact, especially after the way we’d left things earlier. But I collect myself after a beat, wrap my arm around her shoulders. She’s shaking. “My dad . . .”

I tighten my grip.

“He’d still be alive, you know. If this is all exactly as it was. These last days of ’99.”

Shit. The thought hadn’t occurred to me. It should have, of course. What happened between Beatrix and me wasn’t the worst of what she’d dealt with that week.

“Do you want to . . .” I start without really thinking it through. Go to him in Arizona? And then what?

“I don’t know. It feels like . . . we should be here in LA? What if it’s only this place that’s connecting us to our real life, our real time? It all feels too fragile. I’m scared to mess things up more than they already are.”

I nod. It makes sense, as much as anything can right now. This place, right here. Our city. Our past together. “I wish I had answers for you, Bea. Which, sorry—I know you said no one else calls you that. I’ll stop.”

“No. It’s fine,” she says, the words muffled against my shoulder. “My dad used to call me Bea. It’s kind of nice. Hearing it again.”

“Okay,” I say. “So Bea it is.” And then, because the bourbon left me without enough filter, “Your hair smells just the way I remember it. Same shampoo? Coconut, is it?”

She lifts her head, stares into my eyes for a long moment. Looks away toward the dwindling flames. “I’m going to sleep in Delilah. Maybe we wake up in the morning in a hospital, hooked up to machines. Maybe we wake up here in the past. I don’t know. But either way, I need a break from whatever this is.” She shrugs out of my embrace and stands, flashing a peace sign at me—Tony rubbed off on her—before walking off toward the car.

I watch as she settles in, the interior lights flicking on for a moment then off, before turning back to stare out over the blackness of the ocean. My view from 2016, too. One and the same. My eyes are heavy.

Everything is heavy.

One last nightcap, and then I sprawl out on my minivan seat bed, close my eyes. Listen for a while to the lapping waves below, the same sound that lulls me every night.

The peace from that—my one anchor—helps me to finally drift off.