I’m about to ask her this question when I hear a deep, scratchy voice from the backseat say something like, “Yup or Yeah or Yar,” I really can’t make it out. My neck is still stiff so I have to turn my shoulders and I look in the backseat to discover a third passenger. An older man, probably in his sixties, is making himself at home, eating a bag of popcorn. He smacks his teeth loudly, the teeth he has left, which are stained a purplish-brown. His thin, gray hair shines with grease. The deep wrinkles set into his tan face make his skin resemble a wood carving.
He doesn’t actually place the popcorn in his mouth, he tosses it in. Half the kernels miss and land either on his black, sleeveless shirt or all over my car seat. The loose, wrinkly folds of skin on his arms jiggle as he throws the popcorn. He nods at me and says either, “Hey or Ha or Har.” I can’t understand him. I do notice he’s missing his two front teeth and probably several more. How does he chew his popcorn? I sense a unique smell permeating through my car that wasn’t there earlier. It has all the subtlety of an overflowing trash dumpster.
I glare at Dylan and she’s chewing on another piece of licorice and nodding her head to the music like this situation is completely normal. And safe.
“Did I miss something?” I ask. The song Jack and Diane starts up on the radio and Dylan leans forward.
“I love this song,” she says and tries to turn up the volume, but I catch her hand in mine. She looks over at me.
“There’s a man in my backseat,” I point out, trying to stay calm. I pray that Dylan has more sense than to pick up a hitchhiker. Hasn’t she ever watched the evening news? More like the evening obituary report? I drop her hand.
“That’s Jim,” Dylan says as if this should explain everything. “I call him Slim Jim,” she adds.
I glance back at Jim and he coughs and it sounds like he’s upchucked half a lung into his mouth. He glances around and has the manners not to hock a loogie in my car, so he swallows the mouthful back down. I feel my gag reflex kick in.
“I guess we never went over my car rules,” I explain. “See, I have a strict no hitchhiker, or other possible serial killer policy,” I say to Dylan.
“Oh, Jim’s not a hitchhiker,” she says. “I met him at the gas station, while you were asleep. He just needs a lift to New Mexico. He even offered me gas money,” she adds.
“So, he’s a polite hitchhiker?” I ask. I look around the front seat. “Where’s the money?”
She looks at me like I’m rude for asking. “Well, I didn’t accept it. Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘Do onto others…?’”
“Have you ever heard of highway safety tips? First being, fasten your seatbelt,” I point out, since she forgot to fasten it. She tugs it over her chest and clicks it in place.
“Gray,” she says and her voice turns all soft and consoling. “His car broke down and he needs to get back to his family tonight. That’s it. You helped me out in Omaha, I’m just passing on the good karma.”
I glance back at Jim and he’s starting to doze off. His chin is resting on his chest. A white kernel of popcorn is stuck in the corner of his mouth. Low snorts escape his parted lips. He has a dirty black duffel bag on the floor next to his feet.
“He can take a bus,” I say and her eyes narrow.
“You’re being crabby,” she scolds me, like I’m twelve. “You just need some food.”
“Crabby?” I say. “My car smells like a urinal. Just pull over at the next exit we come to, Dylan.”
“Fine.”
Fine. This is Dylan’s verbal cue for saying she’s mad. She’s mad? I cross my arms over my chest and strain my eyes out the window looking for an exit, any exit, but we seem to be lost in tumbleweed national park. Then I hear something in the distance. I turn down the stereo and look in the rearview mirror and there’s a police car behind us, coming into view over the hill. Blue and red lights rotate and a siren wails.
“I was not speeding,” Dylan insists which of course is true. Dylan never drives over fifty-five miles an hour. She’s used to handling such clunky, undependable piece of shit cars, she isn’t aware that you can actually drive fast in a normally operating vehicle.
She slaps a hand against her forehead. “Is this because I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt?” she asks.
Jim’s slouching head perks up when he hears the sirens and this time the words that escape his lips are loud and clear.
“Aw, shit,” he drawls.
I look over my shoulder. Two police cars are behind us now, sirens on, one in each lane.
Dylan slows down and I hear Jim scuffling in the backseat. I turn and watch him unzip the black duffle bag. He pulls out stacks of cash and starts shoving them under the car seat, the floor boards, anywhere he can hide them.
“Oh, shit!” I yell as I see this happening. Dylan pulls over to the shoulder on the side of the highway and the car kicks up a cloud of dusty brown dirt all around us. I stare behind us in shock as the two cop cars screech to a stop.
Dylan looks over her shoulder as one of the cops gets out of the car and slams the door closed.
“It’s a woman,” Dylan says and looks at me. “You do all the talking.”
“Why me?”
“Bat your eye lashes and finesse her with your smile,” she says. “Maybe offer her some free baseball tickets?”
I gawk at Dylan’s absurd plan. “You want me to flirt our way out of this?” I look over my shoulder and shudder as she approaches. “I don’t flirt with women who flex their muscles while they walk.”
Another cop gets out of the driver’s seat and raises a loudspeaker in our direction.
“Come out with your hands up,” he shouts.
Dylan’s eyes widen. I swallow. We watch two more cops step out of the second car. They each rest hands on their gun harnesses.
“They take seatbelt laws very seriously here,” Dylan whispers.
I glance over at Jim and he looks frozen to the back seat. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. I wonder if he had a heart attack. Maybe a stroke. A single bead of sweat slides down the side of his face.
“Look in the backseat,” I tell Dylan. She glances behind her shoulder and her mouth falls open when she sees stacks of cash wedged under the seat, spilling out. Loose bills litter the floor.
“Oh, crap,” she gasps.
“Step out of the car with your hands up,” the cop repeats through the loud speaker. “Slowly. No sudden movements. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
I inhale a deep breath and open the car door.
Dylan and Jim and I step out, arms raised. Jim’s hands are noticeably shaking and the loose skin around his biceps quiver. I’m standing across the car from Dylan, next to Jim and soon three cops are heading our way. They’re all wearing silver, reflective sunglasses and they walk as stiffly as robots.
Two of the cops grab onto Jim before he can make a run for the fields. Cars slow down along the highway to watch the arrest. I notice people taking pictures from cameras and cell phones. Excellent.
I set my hands on top of my head as a cop starts to search me.
“Wait,” Dylan says across the hood from me. I look over at her. Her eyes are wide with fear as a cop fastens handcuffs around her wrists. For once in her life, Dylan looks scared. I can’t wait to hear the words “I WAS WRONG,” escape her mouth. I wait for the satisfying sentence to drop.
“I have to tell you something,” she says. I stare in her eyes and she doesn’t look regretful, or remorseful. It’s worse. She looks guilty. Her eyes are flooding with guilt. My mouth falls open and I think the worst. She’s been on a robbing spree all summer and Jim is her accomplice. She’s wanted in eight states for armed theft.
“Nick is gay!” Dylan shouts.
I stare at her across the car as the words sink in. She isn’t making any sense.
“What?” I shout back.
“I need you to know the truth, in case we’re arrested and I never get to speak to you again.” Her eyes are pleading
for me not to be upset. It’s a little late for that.
“Shut up,” one of the cops shouts at us. “You don’t speak unless we ask you a question.” An officer fastens handcuffs around my wrists. I’ve always wondered what handcuffs would feel like, but in my mind it is played out in a much kinkier, private situation.
I hear the cop mumbling something to me, but it’s inaudible against the thoughts screaming in my head. I blink at Dylan and try to wrap my head around this new piece of knowledge.
“You mean, you’re not dating him?” I ask her.
“Nick. Is. Gay,” Dylan repeats.
The cop next to me tells us to be quiet. But they could use a stun gun on me and it still wouldn’t get my attention.
I glare at Dylan. “As always, your timing is impeccable,” I shout at her across the car.
“That’s it, split these two up,” the female cop shouts. I stare at her massive biceps, stretching her uniform fabric to the point of ripping it apart, and I shut my mouth. The cop next to me grabs me around the back of my neck and nudges me toward his car.
Dylan
“I’m sorry,” I say to Gray as I slump into the back of the cop car next to him, behind a mesh of steel wire that divides us from the front seat. I look through the metal bars at all the monitors, lights and keypads. It looks like a time traveling machine. I stare down at my handcuffs. They’re heavier than I imagined and just when your hands are confined, your body suddenly starts to itch in the most awkward places.
“Just don’t talk to me right now,” Gray says as one of the cops shuts my door.
“Okay,” I say, a little hurt.
“You’re insane!” Gray says to me and my head perks up. I look at him and he’s irate and I’m so happy I could scream. I smile at the two glowing words. I’m no longer in a cop car that smells like leather and male deodorant. I’m floating into the sky, rocketing towards the sun, high on Gray’s words.
“Don’t you dare say thank you,” Gray reads my response. “It’s not a compliment.”
Officer Greg and Officer Bryan (I was polite to use their names during the arrest; good manners will only win you brownie points) get into the front seat and start the engine. We pull off onto the highway.
Gray looks out the window as two detectives pick and prod their way through his car. Jim already confessed I only offered him a ride, and we had nothing to do with the robberies. At least he was a polite felon. But the cops are making us go down to the station as part of the standard investigation procedure.
“How far away is the station?” Gray asks.
“It’s in Amarillo,” Officer Bryan says. “Enjoy the drive.”
“Texas?” I say with excitement. I close my mouth. Tight. I’ve always wanted to go to Texas, but now probably isn’t the time to point out that my favorite part of road trips are the unexpected detours.
Gray mutters out a sigh. He sinks his head back against the car seat and closes his eyes.
***
Two hours later we’re sitting in the Amarillo Police Department, across a wide metal desk from the two police officers. Officer Greg is filling out paperwork and talking on the phone, while Officer Bryan seems to be in charge of babysitting us. They look like they could be brothers—both with blues eyes and light blond hair that’s buzzed close to their heads. They’re taping our cell phones, emails, and bank accounts for any final traces that we could be linked to the robberies. I’m fascinated by the entire procedure and I end up asking the cops more questions than they ask us.
“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who enjoys being investigated,” Officer Bryan tells me. “Usually people clam up and want to get out of here as fast as they can.” I glance over at Gray and he shakes his head. He only talks when someone addresses him.
Officer Bryan looks over my camera, which ends up being our best witness, since it documents everywhere we’ve been for the last twenty-four hours. They called Sue Anne and Chris to back up our statements. Once we’re cleared from the case, Officer Bryan starts commenting on my photography which turns into a lengthy discussion about tornadoes. He smiles and tells me I should come out storm chasing with him some time.
I look over at Gray and he’s reading a magazine. Most of the anger in his eyes has vanished. He looks bored more than anything.
“You each can make a phone call if you want,” Officer Bryan tells us. “You won’t get your cell phones back for a while, but you can use an office phone.”
Gray nods for me to go first. I stand up and follow Officer Bryan into a side office. He introduces me to Debra, the administrative assistant. I sit across from her desk and she picks up the receiver and asks for a number.
I should call my parents, but they’re worried enough about Serena. I don’t want to give my mom a nervous breakdown. I ask Debra to dial Nick’s number and she hands me the receiver. Nick answers before it even rings.
“Hey! How’s the sex?” he asks.
I groan into the receiver. “Nick, we haven’t had sex. Not even close.”
I glance at Debra and she raises her eyebrows, but she keeps her eyes on her desk.
“What? Well that is your problem, Dylan. Any other trifling matter you’re calling me about is not important.”
I look at the legal file that Debra is studying, opened up to a mug shot.
“Okay,” I say.
“Have sex with him. Tonight. Make a sex kabob out of that boy, Dylan. Eat him up. Got it?”
“Nick—”
“That’s all that matters. And don’t you dare call me back until you have something interesting to say. I want some steamy details. Not cable TV Hallmark fluff, I want skin-a-max dirty shit. Bye.”
I hear his phone cut off. “Nick. Nick?!”
I hand Debra the receiver and she sets it back on the phone base. There’s a wry grin on her face. I start to smile. Sex kabob. I like the sound of that.
Gray
When Dylan walks back in the room, Officer Best Friend Bryan offers to give her a tour of the police station and the jail in the back. Dylan asks me to come, but I decline the sight-seeing experience. I watch them leave and I swear the man is hitting on her. I saw him checking her out when she stood up to use the phone. He even agreed to order a couple of pizzas to the station for dinner. But how often do these guys get tall girls with cut-off shorts in here? They’ve been treating Dylan like a celebrity guest, not a robbery suspect. Men are so simple. Show them a little skin and they become floor mats.
A few hours ago I probably wouldn’t have cared, but a new piece of information is making me care.
Dylan is single.
I look at the cop sitting across from me.
“Can I make a phone call?” I ask. He nods without looking up from his paperwork. I walk in the side office and a name plate on the edge of the desk reads Debra. She looks up and smiles at me. I sit down across from her and give her the number for Lenny, my best friend in New Mexico. We’re each other’s emergency contacts in college, so I memorized her phone number. Debra hands me the receiver when it starts to ring.
Lenny picks up.
“Hey, Lenny,” I say.
“Gray? Hey stranger.”
“Stranger?” I mock. “Says the girl who never returned a single one of my texts this summer.”
“You know I hate texting.”
“You hate anything that’s popular,” I remind her.
“That’s because anything adopted by the masses is usually annoying, since the vast majority of people are annoying. I don’t even like recycling.”
I smile into the phone, despite my situation. I’ve missed Lenny’s eternal pessimism.
“Lenny, I’m in trouble.”
“What is it?” she almost sounds like she cares. “Muscle sprain?” Lenny makes it a priority to give me crap on a daily basis for being a college athlete. She thinks sports are as necessary and helpful to society as fad diets.
“I ran into Dylan a few days ago,” I say. I expect to hear a sympathetic gasp o
n the other end.
“Really? That’s great,” she says.
I frown.
“No, it’s not. She’s my terminator. It’s like she has some mission programmed in her brain to search out and destroy me. She is what I need to run from, right?”
There’s a short pause. “I don’t do science fiction references, Gray. What are you trying to say? Are you still in love with her?”
I look around the police station. I mentally recap the last twenty four hours of my life.
“She annoys me more than ever,” I say.
“So, you’re more in love with her than ever?” Lenny guesses.
I run my hand through my hair.
“Exactly,” I admit.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem?” I ask. “Should we revisit the last three years, and do you want to ask me that question again?”
“Gray, I don’t have the time for your one-hundred-and-one relationship theories.”
“Hey, I don’t—”
“If you love her, there’s only one thing to do,” she interrupts me.
“Avoid her?” I say.
“Tell her!” Lenny says. “I always told you, you two are meant for each other. No offense, but shutting her out of your life last summer was a stupid choice.”
I blow out an aggravated sigh in response.
“Ask Dylan how she feels. She’s always honest,” Lenny says. “Maybe she has a plan.”
“Dylan doesn’t make plans. She unmakes plans. She has planaphobia. The fear of plans.”
“Maybe she overcame this fear. Maybe Dylan grew up.”
I laugh out loud at this broad misfire. “Very unlikely,” I say.
“Sometimes you have to have your heart beaten down before you wise up,” Lenny says. “It sucks but it’s true. It’s the only way we learn anything. She broke your heart and then you broke hers. The score’s tied. It’s time for a rematch. How do you like my sports reference?”