Dreams of 18

“Is that right?”

I can see why this is a little harder to believe for him but I keep at it. “Yes. That’s right.”

“Your parents know that their innocent little schoolgirl daughter’s here. With the alleged sexual predator. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

He’s quoting that article from the Cherryville Chronicle and as soon as he’s said it, the tic in his jaw doesn’t stop.

My heart follows its lead and begins to tic as well, slowly gaining speed.

“First of all, I’m not a schoolgirl. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions,” I tell him fiercely. “Second of all, my parents don’t care. My mom’s busy with her new affair. And my dad’s out of the country for the rest of the month.”

After my accident, my dad remained the same but my mom changed.

She started to kinda care for me. Not a lot, of course. I’m still the living proof of her exploits. But she had a talk with Fiona about the photo and the social media disaster; not that my sister listened but still. Mom even started to ask about my health, my treatment, my therapy and all that.

More than that though, she gets pretty worked up whenever Mr. Edwards is mentioned. Especially when I’m the one mentioning him, insisting on his innocence and my culpability.

In her eyes, it was Mr. Edwards’s fault.

He somehow made me kiss him and I’m the innocent one, and I’ll never understand why. She’s always been so sure that I am Satan’s re-incarnation.

Sometimes I think she’s the one who had that article printed in the paper, making me out to be this damsel and him the villain.

In any case, we’re not a happy family and since I never step foot out of the house, it’s really, really tough. So as soon as I told her that I was going with the girls for the summer long yoga camp, she booked my tickets in a flash – great idea, Violet, she said – and then, I overheard her talking to her new boyfriend on the phone, making plans to meet with him the following day.

“And most of all, you’re not an alleged anything,” I finish just as fiercely, turning so I’m facing him.

“Yeah? It was in the paper. It must be true,” he says sarcastically, eyes on the road.

And that just totally blows me up.

I get so angry on his behalf. So rage-y that I can’t stop from raising my voice and fisting my hands on the seat.

“Fuck the paper, okay? Fuck everyone. Fuck every single person who says that about you. It was my fault. Mine. All of it. I made a stupid drunken mistake and you had to pay the price for it. It’s not –”

I almost bite my tongue when the truck comes to a violently abrupt stop. Despite wearing the seat belt, my body shoots forward and jerks against the strap.

The pain’s so sharp that all I can do is gasp, without being able to make a sound.

“Get out.”

Still gasping painfully and rubbing my chest, I look at him. “What?”

He clicks off his seat belt; the rustle of it snapping back is loud, louder than anything I’ve heard tonight, before facing me.

He not only faces me, he comes closer to me. But not by sliding toward me on the seat – that would’ve been less scary for some reason.

He comes closer by leaning, looming, hanging over me.

He tips his head softly, pointing at something, but his eyes are on me. “You see that?”

His intimate voice makes me tremble. The interior of the cab is barely lit up by the overhead light, turning the air thick and cozy.

It’s hard to look away from him. But still, I do it.

It’s a sign, neon green, on the side of the road, announcing our arrival at his town, Pike’s Peak. I passed it on my way over.

I’m confused.

Why are we here?

It’s a deserted area, miles away from the downtown we were in. How long have we been driving for?

I shift my gaze back to him. “Yes?”

“I want you to get out of the truck and walk up to it,” he says, again in that intimate tone of his.

“Why?” I ask, warily.

“And when you reach it, I want you to keep walking.” He pauses but he’s not finished; I can feel it. “I want you to walk until you get out of this town, this county. This state.” Another pause. “I want you to walk until you get back to where you came from. Do you understand?”

“B-but I –”

“I want you to walk.”

Everything he’s said, he’s done it in a calm way. So, so calm that it’s deadly and chilling. And so opposite of what I’m feeling right now.

Frantic.

That’s what I am. That’s how I’m doing things.

Frantically, I look at the sign. Frantically, I’m dragging in breaths and looking back at him.