my mind in quick succession: my headlights washing over my dad’s unblemished driveway as I waved good-bye to Landon two weeks ago. Lydia and I having a conversation at our mailbox before my first trip to Laramie.
“Whoever he is, tell him to get his engine checked.”
I left. Chase didn’t bother to call me back. I drove until my hands stopped shaking, then pulled over long enough to call the station. I told them there’d been an emergency and I wouldn’t be back until the following Monday. The station manager sounded skeptical, but I didn’t care.
I left our neighborhood behind, driving on autopilot, barely seeing the road or the stoplights or the traffic. Even now Granny refused to let me be. The movie reel continued in my head, relentless and unavoidable. I remembered climate conferences and newscasting conventions in other cities—things we’d planned to attend together, calling them minivacations—until Chase begged out of them at the last minute. I remembered coming home from work some afternoons, thinking what a good mood he was in. I remembered one tiny glimmer of suspicion after another—misplaced items, his phone buzzing as a text message came in, knowing he’d showered right before I walked in the door—each one dismissed in a fit of denial. How could I have been such a fool?
I drove out of Westminster and onto the interstate, my knuckles white as I clenched the wheel. I made it almost to the Brighton exit before I had to pull off the road. I put my forehead against the steering wheel and let the dam break.
Fifteen years, wasted. Fifteen years of refusing to see. Of making excuses for him, lying to myself, telling myself he loved me, as if that was enough. I’d severed the relationship with my parents for him. I wished I could hate him, but at the moment, I only hated me. And Granny B. And her motherfucking meatloaf.
Chapter 7
M Y PHONE rang an hour later, as I left the last exit for Fort Collins in my rearview. It was Chase, of course, but I didn’t answer. When it rang a second time, I switched it off. Fireworks blossomed on the horizon, tiny flowers of light, reminding me it was a holiday. Somewhere, people were laughing and celebrating. I tried not to hate them.
It was almost eleven when I arrived in Laramie. The depressing images had finally abated, along with the fireworks. The tedium of the drive—especially the last hour or so, driving west across I-80 through the wasteland of southern Wyoming—had numbed me to everything.
I wanted it to rain. That would have suited my mood, but there was no chance. Not tonight. Not this late in the evening in southern Wyoming. Not with the high pressure center settled in on top of us as it was prone to do. There’d probably been a 20 percent chance of showers in the late afternoon, but by this time of night, outside of the monsoon season, we’d dropped to rain being a near impossibility. Still, it didn’t stop me from searching the western skies in hopes of a cumulonimbus or two.
I was unable to muster any shred of emotion as I pulled into my dad’s driveway. I felt nothing. Not relief at being there, or shame at having to return to my parents’ house after all these years with my tail between my legs. Only a great weariness.
I stared at the house, sounding the depths of this new apathy. The lights were on in the living room. A shadow moved against the drapes.
Landon? Or was I about to interrupt a burglary?
It hardly mattered. I felt absolutely nothing. Not alarm or annoyance or gratefulness. Only the disappointing knowledge there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
I stumbled up the walk and through the front door. A voice echoed from a radio in the kitchen. Landon stood in the living room amid a pile of boxes, a lumpy blue vase in his hands, apologizing before I’d even dropped my bag on the floor.
“I’m so sorry, Danny. I was here working, and then the phone rang, and I know I shouldn’t have listened, but it’s one of those
“Whoever he is, tell him to get his engine checked.”
I left. Chase didn’t bother to call me back. I drove until my hands stopped shaking, then pulled over long enough to call the station. I told them there’d been an emergency and I wouldn’t be back until the following Monday. The station manager sounded skeptical, but I didn’t care.
I left our neighborhood behind, driving on autopilot, barely seeing the road or the stoplights or the traffic. Even now Granny refused to let me be. The movie reel continued in my head, relentless and unavoidable. I remembered climate conferences and newscasting conventions in other cities—things we’d planned to attend together, calling them minivacations—until Chase begged out of them at the last minute. I remembered coming home from work some afternoons, thinking what a good mood he was in. I remembered one tiny glimmer of suspicion after another—misplaced items, his phone buzzing as a text message came in, knowing he’d showered right before I walked in the door—each one dismissed in a fit of denial. How could I have been such a fool?
I drove out of Westminster and onto the interstate, my knuckles white as I clenched the wheel. I made it almost to the Brighton exit before I had to pull off the road. I put my forehead against the steering wheel and let the dam break.
Fifteen years, wasted. Fifteen years of refusing to see. Of making excuses for him, lying to myself, telling myself he loved me, as if that was enough. I’d severed the relationship with my parents for him. I wished I could hate him, but at the moment, I only hated me. And Granny B. And her motherfucking meatloaf.
Chapter 7
M Y PHONE rang an hour later, as I left the last exit for Fort Collins in my rearview. It was Chase, of course, but I didn’t answer. When it rang a second time, I switched it off. Fireworks blossomed on the horizon, tiny flowers of light, reminding me it was a holiday. Somewhere, people were laughing and celebrating. I tried not to hate them.
It was almost eleven when I arrived in Laramie. The depressing images had finally abated, along with the fireworks. The tedium of the drive—especially the last hour or so, driving west across I-80 through the wasteland of southern Wyoming—had numbed me to everything.
I wanted it to rain. That would have suited my mood, but there was no chance. Not tonight. Not this late in the evening in southern Wyoming. Not with the high pressure center settled in on top of us as it was prone to do. There’d probably been a 20 percent chance of showers in the late afternoon, but by this time of night, outside of the monsoon season, we’d dropped to rain being a near impossibility. Still, it didn’t stop me from searching the western skies in hopes of a cumulonimbus or two.
I was unable to muster any shred of emotion as I pulled into my dad’s driveway. I felt nothing. Not relief at being there, or shame at having to return to my parents’ house after all these years with my tail between my legs. Only a great weariness.
I stared at the house, sounding the depths of this new apathy. The lights were on in the living room. A shadow moved against the drapes.
Landon? Or was I about to interrupt a burglary?
It hardly mattered. I felt absolutely nothing. Not alarm or annoyance or gratefulness. Only the disappointing knowledge there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
I stumbled up the walk and through the front door. A voice echoed from a radio in the kitchen. Landon stood in the living room amid a pile of boxes, a lumpy blue vase in his hands, apologizing before I’d even dropped my bag on the floor.
“I’m so sorry, Danny. I was here working, and then the phone rang, and I know I shouldn’t have listened, but it’s one of those
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