Sylvie
I’m saying it out loud before I even realize it. “Come with me,” I tell him.
“What?”
I shrug. “Come with me.” I’m trying to look casual, like I don’t care either way.
I get the sense that if Knox smells pity on me—and I don’t pity him, for the record—he’ll refuse the ride on principle.
“Just to the Greyhound station. There’s one in Grand Rapids, right? That’s about two hours from here.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to mooch off you, for one thing. I don’t have much money.”
“You’re not, like, demanding caviar. It’s fine.”
“You don’t know me,” he says. “At all. What if I’m some kind of serial killer?”
“I’m pretty sure you bringing it up precludes you from being one.”
Knox smiles a little. “Precludes? That’s a word I’ve never heard out loud before.”
“It’s definitely a book word.”
“I always thought it was PREE-cludes.”
“Nope. Pre-CLUDES. At least I think.”
“I disagree with your premise,” he says, clearly warming up to the whole book-words thing. “If I were a serial killer I would totally dissuade you from taking me. I’d make you think it was your idea.”
“I mean,” I say. “It sort of was my idea.”
“Exactly! See what I mean?”
“So I can clearly not choose the cup in front of me!” My Wallace Shawn impression is wanting.
“Huh?”
“The Princess Bride?! This conversation is totally reminding me of it,” I tell him.
“Is that another movie?”
“Dude! How? You really have led a life of cinematic deprivation.”
“What if I’ve spent all my time honing murder techniques instead?”
I rub my temple. “Knox,” I say. “What are you going to murder me with?”
“I don’t know,” he says, looking kind of grossed out all of a sudden. “I have to have a plan?”
“They generally do.”
“I don’t know. Um. A gun?”
“I’ve listened to a lot of true crime documentaries. I feel like usually they’re, like, more into plastic wrap and handsaws—”
“Handsaws?”
“But even if you do have a gun, how are you going to use it? Your arm is broken. And I watched you try to eat soup with the other one, and I have to say, I’ve felt less threatened by kittens.”
“You don’t know it’s broken. It could be a con!”
“I saw your arm double back on itself!”
He’s clearly scrambling around for the next excuse.
Exhausted, I reach out to touch his shoulder, and he lets me.
“Knox,” I say. “I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a destination.
I have all of this—this stuff, this car, and this bank account and like, fourteen annotated Lonely Planet guides for the Greater Midwest, and none of it is making me happy.
I wasn’t supposed to be doing this alone, there was—he was—I’m not doing a good job of this, okay?
But I can’t go home, and I can’t keep going the way I have been.
If I pull up to one more, like, Insta-famous vista, and feel nothing again .
. . I just want someone to talk to. It’s two hours away. Let me give you a lift.”
He’s studying my face. “So I’d be doing this for you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess. I mean, if you needed confirmation that I’m a spoiled brat.”
“I don’t think you’re a spoiled brat.”
I shrug again. All of a sudden I feel raw. “It’s up to you,” I tell him, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m going to go walk Winslow. Think about it.”