Finally, Forever

  “Thanks for dumbing it down so the stupid jock can understand,” I say.

  “I try.”

  The police officer holds up two fingers to tell me my phone time is almost up. I want to strangle the receiver cord. I feel like Lenny’s taking Dylan’s side. It’s friendship adultery.

  “Is this the Shitty Help Hotline?” I ask. “Sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number. I’m looking for Lenny.”

  She ignores my insult. “Gray, listen to me. There’s only one thing you need to ask yourself: Who do you love? That is the most important question you will ever answer in your life.”

  Only one image comes to my mind.

  “I love Dylan.”

  “Then tell her. I gotta go. I just got to work and I need to shut my phone off.”

  I say goodbye and I’m not sure if Lenny helped me out or made me feel worse. I bounce her advice around in my head, like a racket ball, hitting it away only to have it slam back again from another direction.

  I walk into the main office and Dylan is eating some pizza and talking to Officer Dumb Shit Bryan. Her feet are propped up on a plastic desk chair next to him. His elbow is on the table and he’s leaning forward as he talks to her like they’re close friends. I sit down across the table from her and the smell of cheese and pepperoni reminds me I’m starving. Three pizzas are spread out on the long office table and I help myself to a few slices and a can of Diet Pepsi.

  “I’m just confused,” Officer Bryan says. “I really like this girl. We went out on three dates and now she won’t return my calls.” I stare at Dumb Shit. He’s asking for dating advice from the queen of relationship disaster? I stuff my mouth full of pizza before I make a wise crack.

  Dylan looks thoughtful and she sets her pizza down on the paper plate. She gives the conversation her full attention. “That’s your problem,” she says. “Dating.”

  I want to say that maybe his problem is living in a town with more prairie dogs per capita than women.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Dates are the problem,” she says. “You should never go on dates. You don’t learn anything real about anyone.” She licks grease off of her fingers. “Dates are a scam. Most of my friends use them to go to restaurants or concerts they can’t afford,” Dylan says.

  The cop looks over at me and I shrug.

  “How do you get to know someone without dating?” he wonders. Officer Greg sits down, helping himself to some pizza.

  “People are a lot like places,” Dylan says. “Think of it as traveling. When I traveled in Europe, my favorite places to visit were the small towns. I loved Paris and Rome and all the famous cities, but when I was in a small town, I felt like I was starting to understand the country. It’s the same thing with people.”

  He thinks about this. “So how do you hit local spots with a person?”

  Dylan shrugs. “Figure out what they do by themselves. Where do they like to go off-roading? Do they read, cook, run, paint, watch movies? Figure out a way to do those things with them. Just stop dating. That is the secret to dating.”

  The cops stare at her with these enamored expressions. I’m waiting for them to exchange phone numbers. I shake my head and grab another helping of pizza.

  Dylan

  I walk outside of the police station three hours later, after the authorities were satisfied I was only guilty of stupidly (yet, thoughtfully) picking up a wanted felon (a stranded man in need of help). It turns out Jim robbed three gas stations in Texas. His last robbery was in Kansas, the night before we picked him up.

  I stand in front of the entrance of the police department and look up at the purple-blue sky. Stars are peeking through like pin prick holes in a giant tapestry. The moon is a crescent glow, leaning lazily on its side. I can’t help feeling sorry for Jim, that he won’t see a brilliant sky like this for years.

  I hear the door open behind me and Gray walks out. He stops next to me on the stairs and I open my mouth to say something but he holds up his hand. His fingers almost touch my lips.

  “Dylan, could you just not for a second?”

  “Not what?” I ask.

  He drops his hand and looks at me. “Not do or say whatever you’re thinking of saying or doing? Not act on every crazy impulse that comes into your head? I’m a little burned out right now.”

  I look down at my feet and nod once.

  Gray walks down the steps, passing me. Over the past twenty-four hours I’ve fallen in love with him all over again and all I’ve managed to do is nearly get him killed the first night and arrested the next.

  He turns back to fire a look at me. “Does this fill your ‘Do one random thing,’ quota for the year, please, God?” he asks.

  I turn and take a picture of the police station sign before I walk down the steps after him. “At least Jim didn’t have a gun in the car,” I note.

  Gray doesn’t respond.

  “And it was never loaded in any of the robberies,” I point out.

  “Wow, that’s so considerate of him,” Gray says. “He’s a real humanitarian.”

  I start to laugh but the heat from Gray’s eyes makes me catch myself. I feel like I’m staring at a funnel cloud that could spin and touch down at any moment.

  “I feel sorry for him,” I say.

  “Why?” Gray asks.

  “He only stole because he was desperate, because he couldn’t see any other way out of his situation. When you don’t have hope, I think it makes you crack.”

  “Leave it to you to be philosophical about this,” Gray says and slips his phone in his pocket. “He’s messed up, Dylan. People like that belong locked up.”

  “He’s not evil,” I say. “He has a good side to him.”

  “You have way too much of a soft spot for people. An underdog is one thing. A crazy criminal who robs at gunpoint is another.”

  I nod. “I really learned my lesson today,” I say, looking up at the Amarillo Police Station.

  “What’s that?”

  “Never to pick up a hitchhiker.” I look at Gray. “In someone else’s car. It’s rude.”

  He starts to smile. “You do notice the time, right?”

  I look down at my cell phone and feel a frown setting in. “We’re never going to make it to Flagstaff.”

  Gray shakes his head. “Your little detour put us back a few hours,” he says and looks at me. “Didn’t you say Mike was playing a few shows?”

  I nod. “They’re supposed to be there for the next two nights.”

  Gray turns and looks at his car, parked along the curb down the street.

  “We’ll catch them tomorrow,” he says.

  I look at Gray and dare to ask. “You’re still going to give me a ride to Flagstaff?”

  He nearly laughs at the doubt in my voice. “I’m not going to abandon you in Amarillo. Although I’m sure Officer Desperado in there would appreciate it,” he says and points his thumb at the police station.

  “Hey, look on the bright side. At least we got free pizza out of this,” I point out.

  This time Gray laughs. It starts out light and then it builds. He laughs so hard he has to sit down on the steps. I start to laugh, too, but mostly I’m just watching him laugh. It’s my favorite sound. The words I love you almost slip out of my mouth but I catch them on my tongue and hold them in. It feels as unnatural as holding my breath.

  Gray looks up at the darkening sky and his laughing subsides.

  “I’m not driving eight hours tonight,” he says. “And you are hereby suspended from any driving privileges.” He points a finger at me.

  I nod and try not to pout. “I guess I deserve that.”

  Gray

  The street’s quiet. All I can hear are our shoes brushing against the sidewalk and crickets chirping in the trees. I unlock the car door but I hesitate before I open it. I look down the street. I don’t feel like driving. I’m sick of sitting inches away from Dylan, but being cooped up in a hotel room sounds as comfortable as a slow strangulati
on.

  I could try and drive and tune her presence out with music but her energy is louder than any band I can play. Her eyes say more than any lyrics.

  Her eyes are what catch me—the way they’re always wide and surprised and I’m just lost, looking around, trying to figure out what I’m always missing.

  The sky is dark purple and the horizon is etched in neon pink. It gives me an idea. “You have a sleeping bag, right?” I ask Dylan, and she nods.

  We get into my car which has the strange smell of cologne mixed with cleaning products as if a businessman just used it to sleep with his housekeeper. At least it doesn’t smell like a dumpster anymore. I turn on the overhead light and hand Dylan the road atlas.

  “Here, itinerary director,” I say. “Find me a campsite.”

  She takes the map and opens it over her lap. I turn on the engine and roll down the windows. The air is crisp and there’s hardly any wind. She points to a spot on the map highlighted with a brown teepee. “Found one. It’s about one-quarter of my pinkie finger away,” she judges the distance.

  I take her hand and measure her finger against the scale at the bottom of the map.

  “That’s about twenty miles,” I say. I drop her hand before my fingers want to naturally curl around hers.

  As we drive, Dylan informs me we need to stop at a gas station for camping provisions. She lists all the necessary food items: chocolate, candy, salt.

  I want to add condoms to the list, but I kick the thought away. Besides, this is part of my plan. I’m not going to touch Dylan in a campground full of couples and families and kids. I can’t rip her clothes off. It’s an extra security measure.

  Otis Redding serenades us down the highway. Sitting on the Dock of the Bay might be the most calming song ever recorded. I mean, it has ocean waves and seagulls whistling in the background. And I still can’t unwind. Dylan’s bare leg is next to me and it’s always been my favorite arm rest while I’m driving. Her skin sings louder than the music. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

  Dylan is single.

  Shit.

  I turn up the music and drive and keep my eyes focused on the white highway lines. I try not to think at all, just keep my mind like a dry, barren desert. When we pull up to the campground registration, Dylan pays the $14 site fee. She tells me it’s the least she can do. She talks to the ranger about which campsites are the best. They all look the same to me, dotted with trees, lined with picnic tables, fire pits and water faucets.

  She buys a bundle of firewood and when she jumps out of the car to get it, it looks like she has springs in her feet. She sees this as a vacation. I see it as a diversion.

  Dylan gets back in the car and we loop around the campground. In the center is a community shelter with showers and restrooms. I park under a canopy of green leaves. I dig through my car console and find a lighter and Dylan releases her inner-Girl Scout and makes the fire.

  I walk around the campsite, not sure where I am physically or mentally. It’s like I’m between places. The air is drier out here. I can breathe easier. I can start to sense the desert. The wide open sky is a celestial light show. It’s our own planetarium.

  I’ve decided that love makes people stupid. We never learn from our mistakes. I tried love once and I got burned. I tried it once more, just to see if I got it wrong, if the second time around I would be smarter and stay further away from the flame or carry water to put it out completely. The second time around I crashed to the ground in a smoldering heap.

  Yet here I am, at its mercy again and I can thrash and flail and roll around, but I can’t put it out. I can’t escape its drawing heat.

  When I get back to our campsite, Dylan is sitting on a blanket next to the fire, poking it and making it jump and dance. I sit down on the picnic table bench, but the fire is making my skin too hot. I lean back and it doesn’t help. My brain is steaming. My body is as dry as firewood and Dylan is the flame.

  I stand and back up to see which is disturbing me more, the fire or her presence. I glare at Dylan and bring up the words simmering in my head.

  “Nick is gay?”

  She looks up at me.

  “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth, Dylan?” I ask her.

  “I never said I was dating him,” she corrects me, as if this justifies everything.

  “That’s no excuse,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” she says slowly, her voice sincere. “Nick knows all about you. He’s seen pictures of you, so when he saw you in the parking lot, he was just trying to be a good friend.”

  I shake my head. “Nick, the dog whisperer,” I smirk. “I really hate him.”

  She smiles. “He’s not even a vet. He still lives in his parent’s basement,” she admits. “Supposedly he’s inventing a board game that’s going to revolutionize the gaming industry.”

  I stare at Dylan with shock.

  “I wanted to tell you about Nick,” she says. “But seeing you and Rachel together threw me off. I wasn’t prepared to see you, and then see you with a girlfriend? It was worse than jealousy. I was crushed.”

  Rachel? Rachel.

  Crap.

  In all of the craziness of last few days, I completely forgot about my own lie. I start laughing.

  “How is that funny?” she wonders.

  I look at the fire and my smile falters. It’s my last defensive play and I toss it into the flames. “I’m not dating Rachel.”

  I look over at Dylan and she’s studying me with a frown. I’m surprised to see anger in her eyes, but then I realize she doesn’t believe me.

  “Get over yourself, Gray. You know, you should carry a sign with you that says ‘facetious’ on it, so you can hold it up after ninety percent of what you say.”

  “Rachel. Is not. My girlfriend.” I sound it out for her in phonetically perfect English. Dylan’s eyes narrow and then they widen and I feel like I’m naked, standing in front of her.

  “So it was just casual sex?” she asks.

  I throw my hands up in the air. “I never slept with her,” I say.

  She shakes her finger at me. “Don’t you dare use the gay line on me. It’s not funny. No way is that girl a lesbian.”

  “She’s not gay. She’s completely off limits. First of all, she’s still in high school.”

  Dylan’s eyes are suspicious. “She looks way too old to be in high school. She looks like she’s at least nineteen. And a half,” she adds.

  I nod in agreement. “The over application of makeup can do that.”

  Dylan considers this truth.

  “Second of all, she’s my coach’s daughter,” I state.

  “Oh,” Dylan says and pieces this together. “That was your coach we had dinner with?”

  “Yes,” I say. “He offered to take me out to eat before I left town. We got pretty close this summer.”

  She nods slowly. “Well, Rachel has a crush on you. You can’t deny that.”

  “She has a crush on every guy on our team. She doesn’t know any better. You were right when you said she wasn’t my type. Horses? Are you serious?”

  Dylan smiles. “You told me once you don’t have a type,” she reminds me.

  I press my gaze on her. “Summer flings are not my type,” I say and she nods. That much she can understand. I stare at the fire and listen to the wood crackle and pop. I tunnel my fingers through my hair.

  “All I wanted to do was give you a ride to Flagstaff,” I say. “That’s it. Just one, simple ride. But nothing is ever simple with you, is it Dylan? It all has to be one, big, crazy—”

  “Epic adventure?” she finishes and looks over at me. She has the nerve to smile.

  “Adventure? I swear you’re the only person I’ve ever met that gets less mature as you get older.”

  She breathes out a sigh, but she doesn’t deny my claim.

  “Since I’ve picked you up, I’ve almost died in a tornado,” I say.

  She drops a piece of firewood onto the coals and sits back down
on the blanket. “I couldn’t control the weather,” she argues. “Besides they were only F-2 tornados. I heard somebody mention it at the gas station this morning. That’s practically a baby.”

  “What’s an F-2?” I ask.

  “A tornado rating,” she tells me. “They’re categorized by their strength. They start at F-1, and go all the way up to F-7. Well, according to my uncle his farts are strong enough to be considered an F-0. But that’s just Wisconsin humor for you.”

  I blink a few times at her. “Fart jokes?” my voice starts to rise. “After everything that’s happened, you’re making fart jokes?”

  “Anytime is a good time for fart jokes,” Dylan argues. “Look at the positive side. At least at the end of day, we have a really amazing story.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that really all you care about? Having a story at the end of the day?”

  She nods without hesitating. I look over at the fire and we’re both quiet for a few seconds.

  “You should have told me the truth about Rachel,” Dylan speaks up.

  “I never lied about it,” I point out.

  “You indirectly lied,” she argues. “That’s almost worse than lying because it’s premeditated.”

  “You did the same thing,” I say and take a step closer to her. “I was planning on coming clean today, but then we spent all afternoon in police custody since you decided to get us arrested.”

  “Oh, now you’re rehashing the past?” Dylan says, her voice rising. “Unbelievable.”

  “It just happened an hour ago,” I yell back.

  “I told you I was sorry,” she snaps back. “Besides, don’t you have to do jail time to even be considered for professional sports? Having a police record will only make you more credible as an athlete,” she says.

  I glare at her. “I’m laughing hysterically right now,” I say, my mouth tight. She turns and looks back at the fire.

  I blow out an aggravated sigh. I’m done with fighting. It doesn’t even feel like a fight, more like frustrated foreplay. My instincts are telling me one thing and my brain is telling me another. It’s a push and pull game in my mind.