This night couldn’t get any weirder.
He led Eleanor through his backyard, then around the back of his grandparents’ house to the driveway, past the spot by the garage where they liked to kiss goodbye.
When they got to the RV, Park reached up and opened the screen door. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s always unlocked.’
He and Josh used to play in here. It was like a little house, with a bed at one end and a kitchen at the other. There was even a miniature stove and refrigerator. It had been a while since Park had been inside the RV
– he couldn’t stand up now without hitting his head on the ceiling.
There was a checkerboard-sized table against the wall with two seats. Park sat on one side and sat Eleanor down across from him. He reached for her hands – her right palm was streaked with blood, but she didn’t seem to be in pain.
‘Eleanor …’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’ He was pleading.
‘I have to leave,’ she said. She was looking across the table like she’d just seen a ghost. Like she was one.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘Is this about tonight?’ In Park’s head, it felt like everything must be about tonight.
Like nothing that good and this bad could happen on the same night unless they were related.
Whatever this was.
‘No,’ Eleanor said, rubbing her eyes. ‘No. It’s not about us. I mean …’ She looked out the little window.
‘Why is your stepdad looking for you?’
‘Because he knows, because I ran away.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he knows.’ Her voice caught. ‘Because it’s him.’
‘What?’
‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have come here,’ she said. ‘I’m just making it worse. I’m sorry.’
Park wanted to shake her, to shake through to her – she wasn’t making any sense. Two hours ago, everything
had
been
perfect
between them, and now … Park had to get back to his house. His mom was still awake, and his dad was going to be home any minute.
He leaned over the table and took Eleanor by the shoulders.
‘Could we just start over?’ he whispered. ‘Please? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Eleanor closed her eyes and nodded wearily.
She started over.
She told him everything.
And Park’s hands started shaking before she was halfway through.
‘Maybe he won’t hurt you,’ he said, hoping it was true, ‘maybe he’s just trying to scare you. Here …’ He pulled his hand inside his sleeve and tried to wipe Eleanor’s face.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t know, you don’t see how … how he looks at me.’
CHAPTER 49
Eleanor
How he looks at me.
Like he’s biding his time.
Not like he wants me. Like he’ll get around to me. When there’s nothing and no one else left to destroy.
How he waits up for me.
Keeps track of me.
How he’s always there. When I’m eating. When I’m reading.
When I’m brushing my hair.
You don’t see.
Because I pretend not to.
CHAPTER 50
Park
Eleanor pushed her curls out of her face one by one, like she was gathering her wits by hand. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
She was making more sense now, and more eye contact, but Park still felt like someone had turned the world upside down and was shaking it.
‘You could talk to your mom tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Everything might look different in the morning.’
‘You saw what he wrote on my books,’ she said evenly.
‘Would you want me to stay there?’
‘I … I just don’t want you to leave,’ he said. ‘Where would you go? To your dad’s house?’
‘No, he doesn’t want me.’
‘But if you explained …’
‘He doesn’t want me.’
‘Then … where?’
‘I don’t know.’ She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ‘My uncle said I could spend the summer with him.
Maybe he’ll let me come up to St Paul early.’
‘St Paul, Minnesota.’
She nodded.
‘But …’ Park looked in Eleanor’s eyes, and her hands fell to the table.
‘I
know,’
she
sobbed,
slumping forward. ‘I know …’
There was no room to sit at the table next to her, so he dropped to his knees and pulled her onto the dusty linoleum floor.
Eleanor ‘When are you leaving?’ he asked.
He pushed her hair out of her face and held it behind her head.
‘Tonight,’ she said, ‘I can’t go home.’
‘How are you going to get there? Have you called your uncle?’
‘No. I don’t know. I thought I’d take the bus.’
She was going to hitchhike.
She figured she could walk as far as the Interstate, then she’d stick out her thumb for station wagons and minivans. Family cars. If she hadn’t been raped or murdered – or sold into white slavery – by Des Moines, she’d call her uncle collect. He’d come to get her, even if it was just to bring her home.
‘You can’t take the bus by yourself,’ Park said.
‘I don’t have a better plan.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ he said.
‘To the bus station?’
‘To Minnesota.’