“Sue Ellen, oh my God, I can’t believe you came.”
She smiles, and all the breath goes outta me.
“Yeah, well,” she says, her voice soft, like a goddamn lullaby. “I was worried when I didn’t hear from you, but I figured I’d go ahead and try.”
I tell her about the phone card as I throw my stuff in the back of her new-looking silver Volvo station wagon.
I sit down next to her on the tan leather passenger seat—trembling suddenly—staring.
“This is fucking surreal,” I say, stupidly.
She stares right back at me and she is beautiful and I’ve come all this way and I really do love her—I do—more than I ever could Zelda. That has to be the truth. I mean, I keep telling myself that.
Her pale, small hand reaches up, her fingers lightly running down the curve of my cheekbone.
“It’s so good to see you,” I tell her, unable to stop myself, the words practically forcing themselves outta my mouth.
She moves her hand up higher, pushing back my long, greasy hair.
“It’s good to see you, too,” she says sweetly.
A car drives past—the light catching her eyes—her tears like shadows.
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you for this, Sue Ellen. You’ve saved my life. I’m so fucking grateful for you.”
She leans forward and kisses me. Her full lips pressing against mine—opening slightly.
I want to take things slow.
I don’t want to pressure her.
But she’s kissing me, so I kiss her back.
We kiss like we mean it.
I suck on her tongue.
I hold the warmth of her body.
She tucks her head up under my jawline, resting there—taking shelter in the curve of my neck—her arms encircling my frail waist.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispers, wiping away her tears with my frayed-to-almost-nothing T-shirt. “You’re so skinny. Are you all right?”
“Well,” I say, laughing a little, “I haven’t eaten in about two days. And, uh, even then it was just a fucking PowerBar.”
She pushes herself back. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m broke. I really don’t have a penny.”
“But you’re gonna be getting money from your publisher when you finish your book, right? So why wouldn’t anyone lend you the money?”
Leaning forward, I reach out to kiss her forehead, inadvertently picking up the putrid, rotting smell of my clothes and body crevices.
“Man, I stink bad,” I say. “I’m sorry. First thing I’ll do is take a shower. But, uh, yeah, you’re right, I will be getting that money. It doesn’t matter, though. There’s not a single person in my life who still trusts me. I mean, you might wanna take that as a warning, you know?”
She laughs, turning the key in the ignition. A James Brown song screams loud from the car speakers, startling both of us—Sue Ellen’s hands moving frantically, scrambling to get the volume down.
“S-sorry,” she kinda stutters, not looking in my direction. Embarrassed, maybe.
I tell her she should never apologize for the Godfather of Soul.
That gets her laughing again. “Amen to that. But, uh, anyway, Nic, don’t worry. I trust you. I trust you more than I have almost anyone, I’d say. Besides, your dad already tried that one on me.”
She puts the car in drive, and then we take off down the street a short way before half skidding out in a U-turn.
“What do you mean? He called you?” I ask stupidly.
“Yup. Tried to convince me I should put you right back on the bus as soon as you got here. Said all kinds of bad shit about you… and about me for helping you, actually. I guess he got my number from your mom or something. ’Cause you called her from my cell phone when we were in Arizona, right?”
My whole body stretches out in the seat, and I crack my neck from side to side. The window’s halfway down, and I can smell this foreign sweetness in the wet air. I light a cigarette.
“Yeah,” I almost whisper. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I called my dad from Texas somewhere. It’s gonna be a long-ass time before we talk to each other again—I mean, if we ever do. He’s pissed as hell.”
“At you and me both,” she says. “Do you think he could be right? Do you think this could be the wrong thing for you?”
My hand finds hers—our skin touching—my fingers tracing the lines of her knuckles—drawing shapeless patterns up her wrists and forearms.
“No, Sue Ellen, no way. You’re the… the best thing to happen to me in as long as I can remember. That’s the truth, you know? There’s no other truth but that.”
I watch her silhouette nodding.
The streetlights glow a dull orange—bleeding out like watercolors on the coarse black paper of the night. We’ve made a few turns here and there, and I suddenly realize the street we’re driving on is made of uneven brick. On either side are wide sidewalks with rows and rows of old, what I can only describe as New Orleans–style mansions—many with gas lanterns burning on their porches, and intricate carvings along the stairs and columns and railings that I can’t fully make out in the dark. In front of us is a little square with green grass and hedges and some sort of large horseman sculpture in the middle. Giant oaks line the streets and crowd the square. Long, tangled moss hangs down from the tree branches. Sue Ellen turns at the square, and we take a sort of roundabout so we can keep going straight, if that makes any sense.
The next street is the same, shrouded with oaks, the tendrils of moss reaching down. The warped, decrepit, haunted-looking mansions lead into a central square—everything deserted.
But as we drive even farther, across a set of seemingly abandoned railroad tracks, the mansions suddenly give way to withered little shacks with cluttered porches and broken windows. Dogs sleep chained to the front stairways. Men and women are out here, talking in groups on the sidewalk, holding beer bottles in their hands, smoking cigarettes. Sue Ellen
