The inside of the car is soundless for more than an hour, and eventually the monotony of the tires over the seams in the highway push me over the edge. I exhale and shift in my seat, giving in and looking at Will. I don’t know what I expected…no…that’s not true. I expected a fight. I expected him to look just as angry as I feel, to huff at me, and spit out a “What?” so I could yell something. I thought he’d engage, but now that I really look at him, I see how wrong I was.
His hands haven’t left their position on the wheel. His eyes are glued open on the road, and even his blinking comes in regular patterns, as if he’s counting down to the time between each one, markers for distance traveled and time spent in this car alone with me—with me and the truth. He’s not going to fight back. He’ll just take it, whatever I dish, and it makes me want to scream because Will is not a beaten dog. He’s my drive! He was always that person, but what’s sitting here with me now—what’s left after everything I know now—is just a shell.
I stare at him for miles, at that face I touched and still want to. I watch his chest rise slowly, his seatbelt growing tight with each full breath. His eyes only flit to mine once, and the moment we connect, I see how much he regrets giving in and looking at me. I see how much this hurts—how much I am hurting him because I hurt.
“Your car couldn’t accommodate Dylan’s chair,” Will finally speaks.
I flinch at the break in silence, but he doesn’t notice. His teeth saw at his bottom lip and his eyes move along the highway ahead of us, flashing to the mirror as he signals for an exit. I recognize the road instantly. We turned this way when I brought him to the strip club—when his body was jerking with nerves and he nearly chewed his fingers to the bone. I thought it was because of how close this area was to the scene of his car crash, but that’s not what it was at all.
We turn down a neighborhood street, rows of tiny houses pushed closely together, dirt for front yards, and sparse of trees—except for the few growing wild and covering sidewalks. Cars are parked front to end along the road, and the further in we weave, the faster Will’s fingers begin to drum along the steering wheel. He slows the car in front of a small gray house, a long wooden ramp still waiting to be painted or stained stretching along the entire front to the driveway with a gold van that looks to be only a month or two old parked in the front.
Will pulls the car in behind the van, coming as close as he can without hitting it. Our car still hangs out into the street, but a glance around the area doesn’t show much traffic, or any other alternatives for parking.
“We’re here,” he breathes, rolling his hands on the steering wheel then falling forward, and folding his arms on top, his chin resting on his knuckles.
“I won’t say anything.” These are the first words I’ve spoken in nearly two hours. Will’s head falls to the side and he looks at me through his empty eyes. “To her…to Tanya?”
I look forward at the small house, the cracks as obvious as the homemade attempts nailed, puttied, and painted along the trim in an effort to hold this house together. The mother of Evan’s child—and Evan’s child—live here. Nothing about any of this is good.
“You may have been right about the ignorance. She’s better off with the lie…” I say, my eyes shifting back to Will. “Whatever version of the story she has.”
His eyes hold mine for a second then move to the house as he pushes away from the steering wheel, nodding.
I follow Will’s lead, letting him guide me from the car up to the house, not bothering to knock or ring a bell. He pulls a torn screen door open, then pushes the main door so we can both step inside. My nose is hit instantly with the scent of bleach and lemon-scented cleaners, dryer sheets, and vanilla-scented candles. To the right, the house looks spotless, but to the left are piles of sheets, towels, clothing, and towering boxes of some type of medical supplies.
“She has a hard time keeping up,” Will says through an apologetic smile. “I think she wanted to leave the house in a semi-clean state.”
I nod and look around me again. She made it halfway.
“Tanya? We’re here,” he says, his voice loud and echoing around the cramped room. I notice a path is cleared stretching straight from a hallway into what looks like the kitchen, and I remember what Will said about needing room for Dylan’s chair. Dylan. His name is Dylan.