Chapter 5

Kissing Claire was another stupid act, but I figured I was owed one final mistake before dying. Not everyone gets that chance.

I don't have a good excuse for why I invited her to drive to Asheville with me. Sure, there was only one van left at that particular car rental place, but there were a few other car rental places to the left of the one she'd found. I could have told her so, she could have gone off and rented her compact clown car, and that would have been that. But I wanted her to come with me. I could still feel her lips against mine and the silky slide of her hair against my hand. I could hear the little noise of surprised approval she'd made in her throat—as if I'd swallowed it, and my chest had become an echo chamber.

Rosie would have a romantic view of that, no doubt. She has notions about shit like that. Maybe it's from the books she reads, half of them with a waxy-chested guy on the cover. My brother, who's always seeing a different woman, would say it's proof of nothing except that I need to get laid, and I'm more inclined to take that view of things. I have a few…friends in Asheville, women whom I see with no strings attached on either side, but it's been several weeks since I bothered calling any of them.

Maybe I'm fooling myself, but I'd much rather believe that's the issue than that I want to be around this woman because I'm curious about her. Because I like her.

Either way, here I am, sitting next to Claire again, only this time in a big, dark-blue van with a console between us, the rain beating against the windshield.

"So, was the in-flight magazine really that interesting?" Claire asks as I turn onto the highway toward Asheville. "Both you and Mrs. Rosings seemed really into it, so I figure the quality must have gone up. You know, my friend Beth used to sell articles to the in-flight magazine for American Airlines. Isn't that funny? You don't think about people actually writing those things. They'll probably give her job to A.I. soon, and no one would notice except for you and Mrs. Rosings."

"I wasn't reading it," I admit, partly to stop the stream of words coming from her, so fast I can barely keep up between the rain beating on the windshield, the traffic, and the bewilderment of being here, with her. "No one reads it. They could probably type the same word forty times, and no one would notice."

In my peripheral vision, I can see her eyes widen—and I imagine the golden sparkle of them. "I didn't think you'd admit to that." A pause lingers between us, surprisingly heavy, then she says, "Were you really that desperate not to talk to me?"

She seems a little upset about it, and for some reason I don't want to upset her. It's either that or my cock, wanting to test the waters, that has me saying, "I'm going to level with you. I was hard. I didn't want anyone to notice. That lady with the kid looked about ready to call the air marshal on us."

"Ooooh," she says, her voice a little breathy in a way that sends a pulse of pure need through me. Yes, it's definitely been too fucking long. Although I can't deny that this isn't aimless lust. It's lust that's firmly anchored to the woman beside me. "Well, I guess that explains why you didn't turn any of the pages."

"You sure paid attention to what me and the old broad were up to," I say, amused. The plane ride was a blur for me after kissing Claire. I'd stayed trapped in my mind, hostage to shitty thoughts, even though I could feel her there, at the edge of my awareness. The sun, burning me and inviting me out to soak it in.

"Something tells me she wouldn't appreciate being called that."

"I'm guessing you're right about that."

She looks out the side window. "It's kind of strange, thinking we'll never see her again. I was sort of fond of her and her gin bracelet." Her gaze darts back to me. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again either."

"And yet, here we are. Maybe you'll get lucky and run into Mrs. Rosings at the liquor store in Asheville."

I meant it as a joke, but she straightens in her seat as if I'd pinched her. "I'm really not the kind of person who drinks during the day. This was an isolated incident. And I—"

I lift a hand from the wheel. "Hey, no judgment from me."

She turns fully toward me, and awareness of her blasts through me—her scent, her warmth, her. I don't know why I figured it would be a good idea to bring a woman who got me hard from one kiss into this van—inches away but untouchable—but I don't feel any regret. I'm glad she's here. I'd figured I wouldn't see her again either—a thought that had filled me with a strange melancholy. Then again, my mood has been all over the place lately.

"I got fired on Thursday, and then I found out my father isn't my biological father, and my biological father is dead. I figured I was owed a couple of day drinks." She says this with a warm, self-righteous fury that makes me feel a thrum of sympathy and, for some godforsaken reason, also turns me on.

I feel an itch to look at her, and I scratch it, giving her a sidelong glance that takes in more of her—her sunshine hair, the golden glow of her eyes, the curve of her cheekbone. "Why'd you get fired, Claire?"

"You're not going to ask why my dad's not my dad?"

"I'm guessing it's because your mother fucked someone else, if you'll forgive my language."

Laughter bursts from her, and it's impossible not to smile. "You don't talk a lot, but when you do, you sure have a way of choosing your words… Yeah, that's exactly what she did." She pauses, watching the rain patter against the windshield. "I got fired for getting my boss drunk."

"I'm sensing a pattern," I tease.

She reaches out as if to shove my arm, remembers I'm driving on a busy highway being beaten by rain, and holds back. "It was a mistake. She's this lifestyle guru so people send her product samples all the time, and I gave her this canned drink that turned out to be alcoholic. She drank, like, three of them before we realized the problem—and then she went on a morning talk show."

I laugh lightly. "I actually know who you're talking about. My sister watches that show."

I mentally kick myself, then mentally pummel myself, because goddamn—a few minutes with her, and I've already revealed more than I should have. At least I didn't use Rosie's name.

"You have a sister?" she asks, leaning toward me.

"Sure, and she saw the show," I say, trying to deflect. "Said she's never laughed so hard in her life."

"Thanks," she says, her mouth puckering. "I'm glad it amused somebody. So what do you do for work?"

"Landscaping. Need a job? I could use someone to help me haul manure."

"Very funny. No, I need to deal with a personal crisis before I even think about getting another job."

Something about the way she says it suggests she wants me to ask questions. I'm surprised by how much I'd like to. But if I ask her questions, she'll feel obliged to ask me questions, and I won't be able to answer them with complete honesty. So I settle for saying, "So you're not here to enjoy our beautiful summer weather?"

I can sense her smiling as she looks out the windshield at the aggressively grey day, as if the clouds decided they'd like to swallow western North Carolina whole.

"No, but it is beautiful here," she says, her tone almost wistful. "I don't get out of the city often."

I almost laugh, because we're barely out of Charlotte, the highway congested with cars, smog all around us. It's not beautiful yet—but it'll get beautiful, and I'm glad I'll be the one to see her face when the mountain views start to assert themselves. I can almost see it now, her pretty pink lips parted, her eyes fixed on the far-off vistas.

I felt that way when I first saw it too. Like I was still lost, but I'd found something worth keeping.

"Just wait," I say, giving her another sidelong look.

She gazes back at me for a long moment before speaking, maybe even a minute or two. Then she surprises me by saying, "Did you really get hard from kissing me?"

A groan escapes me, because her words shoot straight to my cock. It takes a second for me to land on an answer that's not a request to pull over so we can make use of this excessively large vehicle. It would be so easy to touch her. To reach out and put a hand on her bare thigh, beneath the bottom hem of her shorts. To inch it upward and…

I cough. "Yes, but it's nothing you have to worry about. I'm perfectly capable of controlling myself. It's just been a while."

"Like a few months?"

"A few weeks, maybe."

She laughs, her eyes dancing with it. "And that's what you'd call a while?"

"Yeah."

"So, did you have a girlfriend three weeks ago?"

"No," I admit. "I had a few no-strings friends in Asheville."

She shakes her head, her mouth in a mirthful line. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I don't know," I say, stealing a glance at her. "Why aren't you?"

"You look like a player." She waves a hand at my body. "From my experience, men who spend a lot of time at the gym are always players. My friend actually wrote an article about that…you know, the same one who writes for the in-flight magazine. Do you take selfies in your bathroom mirror?"

There's a teasing lilt to her voice. Although what she said was obviously not meant as a compliment, I like that she's been noticing me.

"I've never taken a selfie," I say, "whether in the bathroom mirror or not. And I'm not a player. I'm just not looking for a girlfriend. The women I see aren't looking for relationships either."

"So they're players too," she says. "You're all players."

"Who's putting people into boxes now?" I ask, sneaking another look at her. "Anyway, I disagree. Saying someone's a player implies there's a game. There's no game. No disappointments. Just needs."

Fuck, I shouldn't have said that. Because that word seems to spark something inside of her. She leans toward me slightly, her eyes alight. My awareness of her in my peripheral vision becomes almost painful, and I shift in my seat, wishing I'd brought the damn in-flight magazine.

"So you have a lot of needs?"

"I do," I agree, barely aware of what I'm saying. My throat thick, I add, "Do you?"

"Depends on whether I have someone around who's any good at fulfilling them."

Fuck me.

She licks her lips, and I'm about two seconds away from pulling over to the side of the road and—

"Why are you so afraid of flying?" she asks, her about-face shocking me. It's like she threw a bucket of ice water on my dick, so that's good, at least.

Loss of control.

I can see my uncle in my head, grinning at me. There'd always been something menacing about his grin, even when he was trying to charm people, like he was a wolf constantly busting the seams of his sheep suit. My mother hadn't liked him much, so I'd barely seen him when I was a kid. A few holidays, maybe. And gossip, whispered when Seamus, Rosie, and I were out of sight. Organized crime. Drugs. Bad news. It wasn't until my parents died that he became a central figure in my life—the one pulling the strings. Making me think I could still tug on them when I needed to.

"I don't know," I hedge. "It's an irrational fear." I shrug. "Or maybe not so irrational. You heard Mrs. Rosings. Bad shit might not happen frequently, but it does happen."

"I know, right?" Her eyes widen. "I couldn't believe it when she said that. I had questions for her—"

"I believe that."

I see the hint of a smile on her face. "But she opened her in-flight magazine too, so I didn't get to ask."

"You must just have that effect on people."

"Very funny…but why didn't you just drive if you're afraid of flying? It's far, but it's not, like, in California."

"I'm not going to let something like that hold me back," I say. "I figure I'll get over it eventually."

The expression on her face makes it clear she doesn't believe me. "What?" I ask defensively. "That's how people get over shit like that. My uncle always told me to feel the fear and do it anyway." I feel a tightness in my throat, the same way I get whenever I talk about someone who's gone for good. I'm glad he's gone, mostly, but there are dozens of other emotions wrapped around that one. "He was wrong about a lot of things—most things—but he was right about that."

"Sure," she says, making it obvious she doesn"t buy it. "It just reminds me of how I told Lainey's parents I was afraid of roller coasters when I was a little kid, and they took us to this amusement park with a seriously terrifying ride, with tons of upside-down turns. Her dad spent twenty minutes hyping it up, and I got into line with them. But at the last minute I wanted to leave. I was in tears. But he told me that if I found the gumption to go on that roller coaster, I'd never be afraid to go another. I could do anything."

"And what happened?" I asked, drawn in.

"I went on it." She pauses, reflective, then finishes, "Lainey and I clung to each other the entire time, screaming, although she was screaming for a different reason. I never wanted to go on another roller coaster again."

I'm surprised into laughter for a second, and then my mood sobers. "I wasn't upset I missed my connecting flight. I'm not looking forward to getting on another plane ever again. I thought we were done for. You?"

"Only for a few seconds. But I never think something terrible is going to happen until it already has. It's the optimist in me."

I smile at her, because I can't not smile at her. I'd like to know more about her situation. About the father who's not her father and the job that's no longer her job, but it still doesn't seem right to ask for personal information when I can't really reciprocate. So I settle for turning on the radio.

She smirks at me. "Is this like the in-flight magazine of the car?"

"Maybe," I acknowledge. "But I don't have a hard-on this time." Yet. "I think I just need a minute to absorb everything. The whole near-death experience."

She nods and then surprises me by touching my arm—a quick touch, but she might as well have sparklers for fingers, because I feel it up and down my body.

"Trust me, I get it," she says. "It's been one hell of a day."

Silence falls between us. But a little while later, when the road changes and the rolling blue mountains become visible in the distance—soft and lovely and layered instead of jagged and snow-topped, like the behemoths out west—I let myself look at her again and soak in the quiet wonder on her face.

It's beautiful, to have a face like that—one that registers everything and leaves nothing to the imagination. It's also dangerous.

She catches me looking and turns to smile at me. "So this is what you told me to wait for, huh?"

"Yeah," I say. "And it only gets better. The view from my back deck is so good, my neighbor used to sneak his dates back there and pretend it was his place."

She snorts. "Sounds like he's a player."

"He was, actually, but…he's dead," I say before I can stop myself. It's the thought that's been trailing me all week—the grief that brought me to New York City to see my brother and sister, even though I'd intended never to visit them. People in hiding are supposed to hide, not gather together and throw parties. True, they're hiding together, and I'm on my own, but that's because I'm the reason for it. It's the penance I've been paying. But when you've only made one real friend in two years, and you find his broken body, you seek out familiar things. I still see him like that whenever I close my eyes, and it's bringing back other memories, buried ones. It's enough to drive a man mad.

Claire's giving me a horrified look, like I might have killed him myself, when I feel the back tire of the van pop. Her eyes widen, and she reaches out to grab my bicep, her hand wrapping around it like it's a handlebar. "What happened? Did someone hit us?"

"One of the tires popped," I say, pulling to the side of the highway.

Claire's eyes widen as a couple of cars whizz past us on the narrow road, and she releases my arm. The wipers on the windshield are fighting a losing battle with the downpour pinging off the van in all directions; the sound making it almost impossible to hear her as she asks, "What are we going to do?"

She sounds so helpless over a popped tire that I have to laugh. "You've never been in a car with a busted tire before?"

She's already shaking her head. "We didn't have a car growing up. Lainey's parents have one, but it's this teeny-tiny old thing and they hardly ever use it. Should I call Triple A? Or maybe the highway patrol?"

Without thinking, I reach forward and tuck some of her sunshine hair behind her ear, finding it as silky as I remember it. "It's okay, Claire. I can change the tire. I'm happy to. Makes me feel good that I can be the one who takes care of you this time."

"I didn't mind helping you," she says, looking a little startled. "I had panic attacks at the office sometimes. I know what it feels like, so when I saw you…" She swallows, and maybe she's thinking of that kiss too—of the electric pull that made me forget I was on a plane, or that planes existed, because she trails off. Then she swallows again and says, "Are you really going out in this?"

She gestures to the rain beating down on the windshield. It's still falling hard, like it's taken offense to the day and wants to wash it away.

"Sure. Wouldn't be the first time. I've camped in worse."

Sometimes I pack a bag and take to the mountains.

Sometimes, when I'm out there, I wonder if I'll bother coming back.

Her eyes gleaming with purpose, she reaches into her tote bag, the only luggage she has until her bag comes in, and removes a small pink plastic umbrella.

"No way," I say, laughing.

"You'd rather get wet than stand under a pink umbrella?" She sounds borderline offended that I don't want to balance her tiny umbrella against my shoulder while I work on the van.

"It's not the color I object to. It's just too small, and I'd have no way of holding it."

"I'll hold it over both of us."

A smile works over my face, because she said it with such determination, but if she tried, we'd both be soaked, no two ways about it—and she'd be even harder to resist if her T-shirt was wet and plastered to her chest.

"Let's put that in our back pocket, okay?"

"Is that your way of saying no?"

"My dad's. But it works well enough." I reach out and touch her hand, just above where it's hooked around the umbrella. "Thank you for the offer all the same. You're going to feel the car lift up, by the way."

I'm thanking her for the offer of the umbrella, but it's not just that. She made me feel better on the plane, even before the kiss. She's a person who cares about other people when she has no cause to. There aren't a lot of people like that in my life, at least not anymore, and I have enough sense to value those people when I come across them—even if our acquaintance is only going to be the length of this car ride.

Truth is, I'm not all that upset the tire popped, because it means I get to keep her for a few minutes longer.