One Week

Day SIX



I open my eyes and it's light out. And it's stopped raining. I roll over to see Jess awake and watching me.

“Good morning,” he says. “Did you sleep okay?”

I rise up on my elbows and lean over and kiss him. “Mmm-hmm. You?”

He runs a hand along my collarbone and down the center of my back. “I slept some.” His hand dips along the side of my ribcage and I twitch involuntarily. I'm very ticklish. Jess grins, and I roll away in self-defense.

“I can't believe you carry a condom in your wallet,” I laugh, looking up at the ceiling of the trailer. “Who does that?”

Jess shrugs. “Hey, I'm just glad I had one. But what about you?” he asks, sounding slightly worried. “Are you glad?”

I roll back over onto my side so he can see my face. “I'm a little sore,” I admit. “But I'm glad too.” Last night, as he was digging his wallet out of his jeans, Jess asked me if I was sure. I was then, and I am now, so very sure.

Jess reaches a hand and pulls me in for a deep kiss, one that makes me wish he had an entire pack of condoms in his wallet. And I can tell he feels the same way. But then again there are other things we can do, and I discover that those things are pretty wonderful too.

We fall back asleep again, or I do anyway, and when I wake up Jess is half-dressed and moving around the trailer, trying to be quiet as he picks up our still-damp clothes. I sit up and he tosses me my bra and shirt.

“We should probably get going,” he says. “It would be just our luck to have whoever owns this trailer show up today.”

I know he's right, but I never want to leave. I wind my fingers in my bra strap but don't put it on just yet. I'm having those morning-after jitters. I know it's completely unnecessary, but I can't seem to help myself. “So when we get to New York, are we going to, uh, go out to that dinner like we talked about?” I try to sound casual, but I know I'm failing miserably.

Jess pulls his T-shirt over his head. “Sure,” he says after a moment. He turns his back to me, and looks out the window. “Bee,” he says, his voice sounding tight, “you do realize you have to go home at some point, right?”

I look at him blankly. This seems wildly off-topic right now.

He turns around and looks at me and sighs. “I know why you want to get to New York, and I swear, I'm going to make sure you get there, but after that I think you need to figure things out with your father. What are you going to do in New York anyway? You have to go home.”

I gape at him, feeling completely blindsided. This isn't at all the way the conversation was supposed to go. I look down and clench my fingers around my bra strap. “Is this because I turned out to be a virgin?” I ask, and my voice sounds small and very young.

“No,” Jess says carefully, and comes over to sit on the bed next to me. “I knew that already. It's not about that.” “Knew that already? How?” I say, my voice rising.

“Well, it was kind of obvious,” Jess says, sounding awkward.

“Obvious? What the hell does that mean? Did I have some kind of Presence of Hymen indicator light blinking on me somewhere?” I can't believe this. I scoot away from Jess and pull the sheet up over my chest.

“No!” Jess says. “It's just…I just know you, that's all, and I…” he sighs. “It doesn't matter anyway. Bee, this was…this was great.” He takes a breath. “It was really great, but it was probably a mistake.”

My throat clenches, and my face grows hot. “A mistake,” I choke out.

Jess doesn't look at me. He winds the sheet in his fist, and I can see the whites of his knuckles. “Face it, Bee. You're too old to pretend to run away from home, and you're too young to do it for real. You have to go back.”

I rip the sheet away from him, and wrap it around myself as I climb out of the bed. I don't want to be there anymore. And even though—God—he's seen everything there is to see, I don't exactly feel like being naked around him at this precise moment. Or ever again.

“I'm not going back,” I say in as haughty a voice as I can manage, considering that I feel like I'm about to burst into tears and then throw up. “If you don't want to see me once we get to New York, that's fine—you should just say that. In fact, I see no reason why we should have to see each other at all, starting now. If you'll just give me some privacy, I'll get dressed and happily never see you again.”

“That's not what I'm saying at all. Jesus, sometimes you're like a little kid. You always hear only the worst interpretation of whatever anyone is saying to you.”

Suddenly, I can't stop the tears any longer. I waited all this time, thinking that sex was making love, that it was something special, like I was Lady Delia. But this is what it is. It's the next morning, and being told that you're a child, that you should go back to LA and never see each other again. I turn and face the window, clutching the sheet to my chest so tightly I can feel my nails through the cloth.

“Get out,” I say quietly, my voice shaking.

“Bee, please,” Jess says, and reaches out to touch my shoulder. “I'm sorry. This really wasn't the time to talk about this, and I…shit, I say everything wrong. But look, I care about you, okay? It's not that I don't want to see you again—of course I do—but I think you need to think this through.” I flinch away from him.

“Get out,” I say again.

“Bee, come on. Talk to me.” I hear the patronizing concern in Jess's voice and it makes me want to scream. But I don't. I stand there and stare out the window and cry and ignore Jess as he talks at me and rubs my shoulder, and eventually he goes away.

And then I throw up.

I wipe my mouth with the corner of the sheet, and look down to see the smear of blood, but I can't muster up the energy to cry about that. I get dressed. I strip the bed and ball up the sheets and, not knowing what else to do with them, leave them in a pile on the floor. I rummage through the cupboards to find something to clean up the vomit with, and find a pack of stale crackers that Jess somehow missed in his search last night. I'm not hungry.

I open the door of the trailer to find Jess leaning against the wall, and I toss him the pack of crackers. “Eat these before you pass out,” I say, and bang the door shut behind me.

I hear it slam again as Jess walks into the trailer. “I think it's time we just got this trip over with as quickly as possible,” I say, not looking at him. “Agreed?”

“Not agreed,” Jess says. “Bee—”

“Fine,” I continue as if he hasn't said anything. “I have a plan. We need to get to Tiffin. So get your shoes on and let's go.”

Jess opens his mouth as if to say something else, but then he gives up and closes it. He sits down to put on his Converse, and when he stands up I hand him the crackers again.

“You can eat those while we walk,” I say.

Walking side by side with Jess is excruciating. Part of me can't believe this is happening and wants to reach out and hold his hand. Which just makes me feel worse. Jess looks at the road ahead and doesn't say anything, and I'm grateful for that.

I'm even more grateful when a car stops after not even twenty minutes. The woman in the passenger seat rolls down the window. “Are you kids all right?” she asks.

“We're fine,” Jess assures her. “But we could really use a lift. Are you heading into Tiffin?”

“We're passing through there, sure,” she says. She glances at her husband, who nods and says, “Hop in.”

Jess reaches for the door handle, but I lean in to ask the woman a question. “Does Tiffin have a newspaper?”

She frowns. “There's a small paper. We mostly read the Des Moines Register. It's run by—what's his name, honey?”

“Jeremiah Krienke,” her husband says.

“Right. But it's mostly just stuff about the town, Little League scores, that kind of thing,” she explains.

“That's fine,” I assure her. “Would it be at all out of your way to drop us over at Jeremiah Krienke's office?”

“Uh, no,” she says, glancing at her husband, who shrugs again. “It's on our way home.”

“Thanks so much.” I reach past Jess and open the door, leaving him to go around and let himself in on the other side.

“What's this about a newspaper?” Jess asks me in a hushed voice.

I ignore him. It's a very quiet ride into Tiffin.

We are dropped off outside of a small strip mall on Washington Street in downtown Tiffin. The place looks pretty empty, but the lights are on in the Advertiser-Tribune office. Stupid name for a newspaper. We thank the nice couple—we never even asked their names—and they drive off. I take a deep breath and push open the door. It has a little bell on it that dings when the door swings back, and a voice calls out from farther back in the office, “Damn it, Bill, I told you I don't need another Op Ed on how pissed off you are about trash pickup in Bloomville. Come back when you have something new to rant about.”

“Uh, this isn't about trash pickup,” I call. The fluorescent light over my head is blinking and buzzing, and the office is a mess. I hear some papers rustling and the squeak of a chair that's used to being sat in all day, and then a guy in his late thirties appears.

“Yeah, can I help you?” he asks, and then trails off. “You're Bette Gold,” he says flatly.

Wow. That was actually a lot quicker than I thought it would be. “I am,” I say coolly. “And you are?”

“I'm Jeremiah Krienke, editor-in-chief.” He nods his head at Jess, who is just standing there gaping. “And who is this?”

“It doesn't matter,” I say dismissively. “You are not to mention him at all.”

Jeremiah Krienke crosses his arms over his chest. “Not going to mention him in what?”

“In the article you're going to write about how I'm here in Tiffin, Iowa. I assume there has been a fair amount of media speculation on where I am?”

Jeremiah nods.

“Then I imagine this will make for a decent story,” I say dryly. “You can take one photograph of me, you can run it in tomorrow morning's paper, and the Advertiser-Tribune will have a scoop on the New York Times. It will only cost you five hundred dollars.”

Jess lets out a choked laugh and grabs my arm to pull me aside. “Bee, this is stupid,” he hisses. “We can get there another way.”

I shove him off. “This will be faster. And it won't matter—by the time the photograph runs, I'll be halfway to New York.” I turn back to Jeremiah, who has been listening carefully to our exchange. “Well?”

Jeremiah's expression doesn't change. “Why exactly would I want to give you five hundred dollars when I could just call your father and collect the $50,000 reward he's offering for information on your whereabouts?”

Shit. I forgot that my father had offered a reward, although it was an obvious move. I open my mouth to answer, and then close it. I have no argument to make, and now I'm pretty much f*cked. There's an awkward pause as I stare blankly at Jeremiah, and then Jess jumps in.

“Because what good would that do you exactly?” he says.

Jeremiah snorts. “Ten grand? Oh, I don't know. My car needs a new transmission.”

“If you run the article, it'll get syndicated,” Jess says. “Maybe you won't make ten thousand dollars, but you will get noticed by the Des Moines Register. Maybe even the Chicago Tribune. Unless of course,” he says, gesturing around the dingy office, “you're happy here in Tiffin.”

Jeremiah gives Jess a hard look, and then nods. “Fine,” he says to me. “But I don't have five hundred. You can have three-fifty.”

“Done,” I say. That ought to be plenty to get us to Chicago. And I'm not letting that cash out of my sight this time. “One thing, though: the article says that I am traveling alone. There will be no mention of anybody else. Is that clear?”

Jeremiah looks back and forth between Jess and me, trying to read what our relationship might be exactly, considering that we're traveling together but barely speaking to each other. But he doesn't say anything. Instead he nods once, and then turns and picks up a camera off of the top of a filing cabinet. He hands me a copy of this morning's paper. “Let's get a picture of you in the town square,” he says. “It'll give Tiffinites a thrill.”

We follow Jeremiah out the door, which he doesn't even bother to lock behind us—guess there's not much crime in Tiffin, or nobody wants to steal a paper that costs only two dollars. He's a tall guy, and although I'm not particularly short and neither is Jess, we're both half-jogging to keep up with him. We walk four or five blocks down Washington Street, and Jeremiah stops in front of a radio station window. He positions me so that the name of the station, WTTF, is visible over my shoulder.

“Why do I have the newspaper?” I ask, confused.

“It's to prove when you were here,” Jeremiah explains. “Also it guarantees the Advertiser-Tribune mention in any article that runs the photograph.”

I hold up the newspaper in front of my chest, feeling like somebody who has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. I remind myself that I'm the one getting the money here. Although it occurs to me as Jeremiah backs up the snap the picture that perhaps I should have asked for the cash first. Jess stands awkwardly over on the side, hands shoved in his pockets.

Jeremiah finishes up, and waves for us to follow him again. We cross the street and go into the Walgreen's, where Jeremiah withdraws $350 from the ATM. He folds it up and hands it to me.

“I'm not all that comfortable doing this,” he warns. “I've got half a mind to call your father. What are you doing in Tiffin, Iowa? Do you even know where you're going?”

“I know what I'm doing,” I assure him.

Jeremiah shakes his head. “I doubt it.” He sighs and extends a hand for me to shake. I do, feeling a little uncomfortable. When I planned this out in the trailer this morning, it felt cheap, but I didn't think the newspaper would have any scruples about it.

Jess shakes Jeremiah's hand, and asks for directions to the bus station. Jeremiah points us in the right direction, then turns and walks back to his office without another word. Jess takes my arm and says, “Come on.” I shake him off, and he scowls at me and walks ahead.

After our experiences with Mr. Mackey and riding in the back of Joey and Sean's truck, the bus feels like warm, cozy heaven. There is an awkward moment as Jess takes a seat and then scoots over so that I can sit next to him, and I just stand there. I had planned on handing him half of the money and going our separate ways, but unfortunately our ways are still exactly the same. We walked to the bus station together, we got some sorely needed breakfast together, and we waited for the bus together, all in virtual silence. I could go sit somewhere else, but I'd feel like a pouting child.

“Just sit down, Bee,” Jess says wearily. “I promise not to try to talk to you or anything.”

In the end, I sit. And we spend the four-hour ride not talking at all.

I hate this. I keep half-turning to Jess, to laugh with him about the crazy woman sitting four rows ahead, or to comment on the fact that we have now been through seven states together, or just to talk to him. And sometimes I think about last night and my heart starts beating faster and I feel sure that he knows what I'm thinking about, that the entire bus must know. I wish so badly that we could just go back to that moment, because…I was so happy. I feel like I ought to want it to never have happened, but I don't.

When we pull into the station in Chicago, Jess leads the way to the Amtrak platforms. “I've done this part before,” he explains. We go find customer service, and miraculously our bags are still being held for us. The clerk seems bemused by my amazement at having my bag back (and Jesus, none of my money stolen), and points out that their policy is to hold claimed baggage for forty-eight hours, and this has been far less than that. To me it feels like it's been so much longer.

We grab some food at Union Station, since we have another few hours before our train leaves at nine-thirty. I am dismayed to discover that it's another twenty hours to New York from Chicago. It's nothing compared to the days I've already spent traveling, but at the moment it seems impossibly long. After we finish eating, Jess and I sit in a Starbucks reading books we found at the newsstand, though I can't concentrate. I debate leaving Jess behind and trying to catch a plane to New York, but even if I paid cash there's no way they'd let me on the plane without showing I. D. Obviously I could just stay here in Chicago, but I have this obscure feeling that despite wanting to get away from Jess, and despite the fact that New York was a completely random choice anyway, I have to get there. New York is all I have left.

My ticket still qualifies me for a roomette, but they're all taken on the next train out. The attendant says that if we waited for tomorrow night's train we could probably secure one. I laugh hysterically, and Jess explains wearily that we'd really rather just get moving. Jess and I find seats in coach—together, naturally—and he shoves his duffle on the shelf overhead. It occurs to me that I have been wearing these same clothes for six days. The first thing I'll do when I get to New York is go shopping. Right after I figure out a place to stay, that is.

I am such an idiot. What the f*ck am I going to do when I get to New York? Somehow, that part always seemed like the next step, like the thing I would figure out on the way there, but now the trip is finally ending, and after all this time I don't have a clue what I'm going to do.

Suddenly I'm exhausted, and I pull down my tray and bury my head in my arms. I feel Jess's hand on my shoulder, and for the first time I don't pull away. I'm just too tired. “Bee…” he trails off. There's a long pause, but I don't look up. “I wish you would let me explain,” he says finally.

I snort and raise my head. “I wasn't actually thinking about you at that precise moment,” I say dryly. He frowns, and opens his mouth to ask what was wrong. I wave him off, and look away. “It doesn't matter. I'll be fine.”

“Will you let me explain now, anyway?” Jess asks softly.

I shrug, and continue to look anywhere but at him. Jess gently takes my chin and turns my head to face him. His eyes hold mine, earnest and very serious. “I don't regret anything,” he says firmly. “And to answer your question from this morning, I would love to have you take me out to dinner, even if we went to the scariest-looking restaurant in Chinatown. Isn't it obvious to you by now that I would go anywhere you were going?”

I want so badly to believe him. I bite my lip and feel my eyes starting to water. “Then why—”

“I was trying to get you to think about what you need. And I…I didn't say it very well,” he says ruefully. “I'm sorry. I don't exactly like the thought of never seeing you again, and that's what's going to happen. I was…upset, and I said things all wrong.”

I shake my head and wipe the tears away. “But there's no reason. Why would we never see each other again? I'll figure things out in New York, somehow.” And at that moment, I'm absolutely sure that I will.

Jess opens his mouth to say something else, but then he closes it. He looks out the window for a second, and I crane my neck trying to read his expression. He turns back to look at me and smiles. “You're right,” he says, and pulls me to him. The armrest is biting into my side but I don't care. Jess kisses me, so sweetly and so warmly that I want to start crying again, and I can't say why. He pulls back and kisses my forehead. “It'll all be all right,” I say, but I'm not sure whether I'm reassuring Jess or myself.

Jess nods once and settles me against his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Bee,” he says. “It's been a long day.”

And I do go to sleep, because although I've spent all day wanting to talk to Jess and not being able to, now I know that we'll have all the time in the world.