Sylvie
“What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” he says, buckling up one-handed. The Conoco and the Shell loom large behind us.
“Seriously, though. What was that all about?”
“Nothing.” He’d sound surly if you didn’t know him. I guess I know him, because I hear hurt in his voice instead. Or fear?
“Knox,” I ask, not really sure what the answer to this question could be, “what happened to you in that gas station?”
“You didn’t want to talk about Cal. I don’t want to talk about this.”
We merge onto I-39. Springfield, the sign says. One hundred ninety-two miles.
I try a lighter tack. “Explosive diarrhea in the bathroom? No toilet paper? Had to buy a whole new set of Conoco-branded clothes?”
His mouth twitches. “No.”
“No?”
“Honestly I should probably just say yes. Because what happened sort of felt like that. Emotional diarrhea.”
“Was it—”
“Sylvie, I need you to stop guessing.”
“Okay,” I say, stung, and turn on the radio. Turn it up too loud, daring him to say something about it.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t say much of anything for the rest of the night, not even when we set up camp.