“I’m glad you find my name funny. So did every kid at every school I ever attended. Especially when I showed up in clothes like these every day. Even in summer.”
She hesitates, and I realize she’s actually telling the truth, giving me a glimpse of who she really is.
“I used to beg my parents for jeans,” she continues, “but they wouldn’t let me have a pair. Kept talking about modesty and godliness. Well, you know what? I don’t think God gives a crap about what I wear. But the kids at school sure did, and they spent all week bullying me for it—even the ones I saw at church every Sunday. When I told my parents, they just reminded me that nothing compares to Jesus’ suffering.”
“True.”
“What do you mean, true? It’s irrelevant. Saying Jesus had it worse is not a justification for bullying. And you know the worst part? I never believed in God in the first place.” She stops, allows her words to sink in.
“Then I’m sorry for you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re only sorry for yourself—that’s how self-centered you are. Come on, Luke, you just dumped your girlfriend in public to save face. You’ll tell anyone what they want to hear—and let them spout whatever crap they want—just so they’ll buy your book.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really? Remember our date? I told you the other kids at school had stoned me. I kept making up this crazy stuff, waiting for you to call me on it. But you never did. Didn’t want to spoil your chances of making out with me over something as minor as a bare-faced lie, did you?”
“I didn’t know you were lying.”
“Yes, you did! I could see it in your face.” She smiles. “And what about your first signing? Yvonne Bethel—who’s a freakin’ con artist, by the way, and everyone knows it—says you’ve performed a miracle, and what do you do? Nothing! And today we discover that your book is a pile of crap, even though you claimed it was all true.”
I shouldn’t have to explain myself to Teresa, of all people, but I can’t help it. “I honestly don’t remember saying that.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient.” She shakes her head. “God, Luke, you have no idea how cathartic this whole week has been for me. My editor at the magazine told me not to make it personal. She said I just needed an interview, a couple statements that revealed the real Luke Dorsey. But when I saw you on The Pastor Mike Show, spouting all this self-righteous crap like the kids at my school used to, I knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime assignment.” She’s almost tripping over her words now. “Exposing who you really are has been a crusade for me. Bringing you down may not undo all those years of torment, but it’s coming pretty damn close.”
I push the book back to her, unsigned.
Suddenly she’s back in Teresa mode, misty eyed and uncertain. “But why won’t you sign it?” she whines loudly. Really loudly.
I can’t risk another scene, so I take the book back.
“My writing may not be legible,” I say as I scrawl the name Chastity across the top, and follow it with a squiggle that has no connection to my signature.
“I understand. You’ve signed a lot of books this week. Still, I’m sure you’ll look back on this one fondly. After all, it’ll be your last.”
I hand it over to her.
“No, no. You keep it,” she says. “Think of it as a souvenir.”
I can think of another, more satisfying use for the book right now. But what would that prove? Years of bullying have brought Chastity here in the first place. Besides, I still want to prove her wrong.
“Blessed are the pure in heart,” I say, “for they shall see God.”
“Matthew five, verse eight.” She nods approvingly. “Well, I guess that rules both of us out. Good-bye, Luke.” She hands me the manila envelope. “And good luck.”
As she walks away I read the words written across the envelope: And I only wanted first base. It takes a moment, but I have a feeling I know what I’m about to find inside. And it breaks my heart.
There are five glossy 8×10 photographs. They’re grainy, because they were taken at night, with nothing but the amber glow of a security lamp to reveal the subjects. But it’s us, all right—Fran and me—our arms wrapped around each other, faces turned toward the camera. By the third photo, we’re kissing. And finally there’s the money shot: Fran and me making out, sprawled on the grass, her body under mine as we kiss with open mouths. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a whole lot more than that going on too.
I’m sure Colin will agree.
6:10 P.M.
The alleyway outside Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri
I’m standing in the alleyway where I was kissing Fran just two hours ago. I can still feel her lips, see her large eyes shining at me with nothing but joy and a self-confident glow that had been missing for twelve long months. It’ll be missing again now. I wish I had the energy to hate myself more.
Today, my dream finally came true. Tonight, I changed the dream.
“You okay?” It’s Matt, hands stuffed deep in his shorts pockets.
I shake my head.
“I know it’s hard,” he says, “but trust me: You should go and apologize right now. Waiting won’t make it any easier.” He pauses for me to show I’ve heard him. “She’s your girlfriend, Luke.”
“Was his girlfriend,” says Alex, joining us. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
Matt touches her arm gently. “Look at him, Al. He knows he messed up.”
“No.” She shakes off his hand. “Just for once, can we call it like it is? You lied, Luke. How could you do that after she’d told you…” Alex turns away. She can’t even face me. “She loves you. Loved you. Do you understand what that means?”
“Give him a break,” says Matt. “He’s under a lot of stress.”
“Don’t tell me you’re taking his side.”
“I’m not taking sides. I’m just saying he’s overwhelmed. This has been a pretty intense experience.”
She steps back. “Three times did Peter deny Jesus. Three times!”
“Now you start quoting the Bible? Come on. Fran isn’t Jesus, Alex.”
“Well, neither is Luke! Not by a long shot. Doesn’t stop everyone from acting like he is.”
Matt takes a deep breath. “How about this one: Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Alex’s shock is quickly swallowed behind a thin-lipped smile. “Egghead Kegs, Matt? Ring a bell?”
Matt’s face turns ghostly white. He seems to shrink before my eyes.
“I know you paid the bill,” she says. “Just like dear Brianna told me you would.”
“Who’s Brianna?” I ask.
“Yes, Matt, who’s Brianna?”
Matt can’t even meet our eyes, let alone reply.
“I didn’t believe her at first,” Alex continues, “so I called Egghead Kegs to check. One hundred and seventy-eight dollars for two kegs of beer consumed a month ago. Must’ve been some party.”
“I don’t really remember,” he says.
“Liar. You paid the bill for the entire sorority. Did you honestly believe you could buy their silence for one hundred and seventy-eight dollars?”
Matt grips his hair like he wants to pull it out. “It was one night.”
“Apparently it was a pretty special night. I looked Brianna up on Facebook, by the way. I can see the attraction.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
“Why didn’t you tell me yourself? Why did you make me find out through an illiterate e-mail from some skanky girl I’d never even heard of?”
Suddenly the bundle of self-confidence known as Matthew Dorsey crumbles entirely. “I was drunk.”
Alex winces, and anger gives way to tears. “I wish you hadn’t said that. How can you sleep with someone else and expect it to be all right because you were drunk?”
“I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“I did, you idiot. I never would’ve come on this tr
ip otherwise. And you know who convinced me to give you a second chance? Fran, that’s who. She said three years together means something. Said everyone makes mistakes. Said she was sure you loved me… and that I still loved you.” Tears stream down her cheeks. She rummages in her pockets for a tissue, but can’t find one. “Fran is the reason we’re still together, Matt. Not you.”
Alex swipes at the tears angrily with the back of her hand. Her eyes flash between Matt and me. “Look at you both. Freakin’ peas in a pod!”
“I’m sorry,” Matt whispers. “I’m just… sorry.”
She draws a shuddering breath. “Good-bye, Matthew,” she says. “We can find our own way home from here.”
“How?”
“What do you care? Train, bus, hitchhiking. It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re not around.”
“What about your stuff?”
“You know where we live. Drop it off tomorrow.” She pauses. “Just leave it on the doorstep, though. I don’t want to see you.”
Alex strides away without a backward glance, and in the silence that follows I feel my heart gouged out and stomped on—not just for what I’ve done to Fran, but to Alex and Matt too. Everything makes sense now, and maybe I should be angry at Matt for using Colin’s credit card to cover up the fact that he cheated on Alex. But I’m not angry. Because I know I’ve played a role in the final chapter of their relationship too, and it was a terrible one.
Why would anyone buy my book? What pearls of wisdom do I have to share now?
“I’m sorry, Matt.”
It takes a while, but Matt turns to face me. He even summons a smile; incredibly, it seems genuine. “Don’t be,” he says. “I messed up really bad. Tell the truth, I’m kind of glad she knows. It’s been killing me.”
“But she’d forgiven you.”
“No, she hadn’t. She hasn’t been herself all week. And it’s my fault, not yours. You just gave her an excuse to say what’s been eating her, is all.”
“But—”
“No!” Matt raises his hand. “Save it, okay?”
“But there’s things I have to say.”
He leans forward and lowers his voice. “I know. But four reporters are heading this way, and there’s a lot I don’t want to see in print.”
I nod once, and we run.
7:50 P.M.
I-44 at St. Robert, Missouri
We outrun reporters hovering beside the bookstore, at the hotel, and in the parking lot. As we drive away from Springfield, they pursue us in cars. On the highway, we’re at the head of a convoy with three TV vans. My life—so plodding and predictable—has become a farce. I’m the headliner in my own reality TV show.
I want to know how it ends.
“They’re still tailing us,” says Matt, after we’ve been driving for an hour on I-44. He seems surprised, but I’m not. Why would he think they’d give up the chase now? It’s not like we’re hard to follow. We’re in a bright yellow Hummer; we couldn’t be any more obvious if we stuck flashing red and blue lights on the roof. “This is really weird,” he adds.
“I guess catastrophic book signings are pretty big news.”
“Uh-uh.” He looks in the mirror again. “There were only four reporters at the bookstore, seven hanging out by the car, and three vans waiting outside the hotel. Now we’re up to six TV vans.”
“Six?” I crane my neck to get a look. He’s right too.
“Yeah. It’s weird.”
No sooner are the words out than he accelerates, surging forward until we’re in the far left lane, passing everyone else on the road.
“Slow down, Matt. We’re not going to lose them.”
He accelerates again. We’re pushing seventy-five miles per hour.
“Please,” I say. “I don’t care anymore.”
Eighty miles per hour. Then eighty-five. I glance at Matt. He’s gritting his teeth, and wears a take-no-prisoners expression that assures me he’s not listening to a word I say. I wonder what the top speed of a Hummer is. I think I’m about to find out.
Ninety miles per hour. The highway is relatively empty around here, and as I look over my shoulder I notice the TV vans are falling behind. Maybe they can’t go this fast. Or maybe they don’t want to be implicated in the high-speed accident that finally, tragically takes our lives.
The road curves. Ahead of us is an off-ramp; Matt floors the gas pedal and sends us careening onto it. He slams on the brakes at the end, and we skid to the right and park behind a motel.
“What do we do now?” I ask. I’m whispering. Not sure why.
“We wait.”
Seconds pass, but no vans trundle along the off-ramp.
“Just one more minute,” he says.
There’s a gas station across the road. Some people are filling their cars. Others are just chatting. They don’t see us here, and they probably wouldn’t care even if they did. And why should they? We’re nothing, really. This whole situation is madness. So much energy has been spent discussing what I wrote, and questioning who I really am. But how can anyone hope to know who I am when I don’t even know myself? Or am I deluding myself again? Am I actually a fundamentally bad person without realizing it?
Finally, Matt puts the car in gear, and rejoins the country road. We parallel the interstate for a mile—close enough to be seen by passing TV vans—so Matt takes another right turn, and now we’re traveling along a long-forgotten stretch of road that makes me feel oddly at home. A sign to the right announces that we’re on Historic Route 66.
“I didn’t know,” says Matt, anticipating my question. “I just wanted to get away, that’s all.”
He keeps chugging along at a steady thirty miles per hour, though the road is deserted. The only sound is the gentle purr of the engine, and the quiet is exactly what I need.
A mile later Matt pulls to the side of the road at the approach to a large iron bridge. “Huh. We found it anyway,” he says under his breath.
“Found what?”
“Devil’s Elbow—a famous stop on old Route 66. I’ve got a postcard of it at home. They say the view of the river is amazing.”
I’m feeling nauseous, so I get out and walk along the bridge. I lean against the railing and stare at the river below as the sun hides behind trees to my right.
“It’s funny,” says Matt, joining me, “but I was sure this would be our last stop before we got home.”
“It is.”
He sighs. “Not ours. Mine and Alex’s.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Why? I’m the one who cheated on her. I should’ve just told her when it happened, but she was already pulling away. I was afraid it’d be the last straw.”
“But it wasn’t.”
Matt hesitates. “No. I guess it wasn’t.”
“See, it kind of is my fault. If you hadn’t stood up for me—”
“I didn’t stand up for you. I just told her to cool it a bit, that’s all. She wanted retribution, or vengeance, or something. She wanted your head on a platter. But it wouldn’t have changed anything.” He stares into the distance, unblinking. “I was just trying to remind Alex who she really is. But we’ve gotten to a point where she can’t hear that from me anymore. And believe me, that is not your fault.”
The setting sun plays shadow games on the sand-colored bluffs that rise from the river. I watch the colors shift, second by second.
“Well, thank you anyway,” I say.
“For what?”
“Being there when I needed you most.”
He laughs. “Unlike the rest of the week, you mean.”
Now I’m laughing too, which seems completely impossible. “You mean the bill from Egghead Kegs? And the fancy hotel room for Alex and Fran? Oh, yeah, and the thousand dollars from the bank? No wonder you haven’t been answering the phone.” I’m practically peeing myself now. “Sheesh! We’re like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. What the heck did you do with a thousand dollars anyway?”
Matt wipes away tears of la
ughter. “Nothing. I’ve still got it. But I was afraid Colin would block the credit card as soon as the Egghead Kegs expense showed up, so I took the cash to make sure we could pay for the rest of the tour. I should’ve taken the cash first, and used that to pay for the keg. I’m not exactly a natural-born criminal, I guess.”
“Me neither. I’ve just been acting like one.”
That sobers us up quickly.
“I’ll give Colin the money, Luke. And I’ll pay him back for the hotel and kegs too, as soon as we get home. I promise. But I had to get that money straightaway—try to make everything a success.”
I stare at him for a moment and then bust out laughing again. “Well, that thousand bucks must’ve been the clincher then. ’Cause this trip couldn’t have been more perfect.”
“Hey, it could’ve been worse. Colin might’ve come with us.”
“Can you imagine? Hey, that reminds me, he wants a ride— Oh, crap!”
“What is it?”
“We’re supposed to give him a ride to St. Louis tomorrow morning.”
Matt looks sympathetic for all of a second before he laughs again. “Oh, man. He’s gonna be really pissed.”
“And to think,” I say, choking up, “everything was going so well.”
Matt doubles over and starts slapping his hand against the iron railing. We must both look completely insane. When the laughter finally runs out, a comfortable silence replaces it.
“So what’s in the envelope?” he asks.
I’d forgotten I was still holding it, the paper fused to my hand as though my guilt has been branded onto me.
“Teresa gave it to me this evening.”
“Who’s Teresa?”
“The woman who announced that Fran was my girlfriend.”
“Oh.” He thinks about this. “Wasn’t she also at Saturday’s signing? The born-again one.”
“Yeah. Except she’s not a born-again Christian; she’s a reporter for a magazine. Tried to seduce me earlier this week—had someone outside taking photos.”
Matt’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was embarrassed.”