We sit side by side along the curb as we wait. Vance remains quiet and won’t meet my eyes. After too much time passes, I can’t take it anymore.
“Vance. What’s bothering you? I wasn’t snooping or anything, but I saw the flowers in the back seat. Is there someone waiting for you? Because honestly, I don’t mind taking you wherever you need to go.”
His face is like stone when he decides to let me see it, but again, his eyes hold a truth he’s unwilling to share. “No. No one is waiting for me.”
“Okay.” Refusing to push, I let him have the silence he seems to desperately need. At least until we hear the roar of an engine closing in on us.
The driver jumps down from the tow truck and untangles a cluster of chains, hooking them onto the car when I shout at them. “Wait.” Both he and Vance swing their heads my way. “Vance, don’t you want to get the flowers from the back?”
He stands there for what seems like an eternity, until the driver spurs him into action when he comments that he doesn’t have all day. I watch him drag his feet to the door then open it, hesitating again before he swipes the flowers from the seat.
Vance gives the driver information for the service station as well as his identification number for some auto membership that’s going to save him a small fortune. I wait for him in the car, doing a quick check of my cell phone to see if I have any messages. Already, I have three texts from Anna with additional details for the customer meeting. The door opens and I drop the phone in my purse.
“So what do you need to do in Eugene?” Vance slides onto the worn leather, reaching behind him to place the flowers on the seat. His actions are almost mechanical; shoulders stiff, features completely rigid. Even his words seem forced.
“Listen.” I insert the key into the ignition then twist around until I’m looking into those eyes I haven’t quite figured out the color of. “We don’t have to talk. You don’t need to feel like you have to make conversation with me.”
Vance nods on a loud breath as if I just gave him a ‘get out of jail free’ card. He turns away and gazes out the side window, hands clasped tightly in front of him. I push the button for the radio, not bothering to search for favorite songs, simply needing something to cut the tension thickening the air between us.
A little while later, I’m humming quietly to Pink and getting lost in the music when I hear “Shit.” Not more than two seconds go by and Vance says it again. “Shit.”
“Vance?”
His voice comes out in short gasps, thin and hoarse. “Can you pull over?”
I steer the car toward the edge of the road. Vance doesn’t wait until I shift into park before he escapes out the door. I watch him pace back and forth, hands firm on his hips. My stomach tightens, mind drifting to Zack’s funeral and the sight of my mother and father staring at their only son—my brother—bent over that awful box—clutching onto it as if they wanted to crawl inside too. I wanted to make it better for them. But I couldn’t even make it better for me. Seeing Vance like this—I need to do something. Determination lights a fire in my belly and I push open the door and round the car. “Vance, I want to—”
The words get stuck in my throat when he doubles over, head bowed, one hand braced on the side of the hood and the other hanging limp at his side as he vomits. I run over to him, resting what I hope is a soothing hand on his back and rub in small circles. “It’s okay, Vance. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
“No.” He shakes his head over and over, still staring at the ground. “Don’t you see? It’s not okay.” He drags a hand over his mouth and straightens, stepping away from me. “I’m sorry.”
I leave him briefly and walk to the rear of the car, popping the trunk. A case of water, boxes of tissue and an old tool box fill the carpeted space. I remove another water bottle from the plastic along with some tissue. When I return, he eyes the items in my hand.
“Are you always this prepared?”
“Yes.” I pass both over to him. “Courtesy of Zack and my father.”
“Thank you.” He uncaps the bottle and chugs, letting the water fill his mouth and swishing it around before he spits. As he allows his eyes to find mine again, the festering pain that has lingered there since we met is overwhelming. It nearly makes me stumble back. “I lied to you,” he admits in a small voice. And I know there’s more. I stay still, fearing that if I move he’ll close up again. He shuffles over to a patch of grass beyond the cement highway and faces the horizon. My heart is already breaking for him, for the devastation and sadness he carries like a quiet badge. “My mother… she… she isn’t coming back.” He stares up at the sky as if it gives him the strength he needs for his confession. “She has a progressive brain disease that affects her coordination and her… memory. She gets confused and doesn’t remember things….” His throat works on a hard swallow. “She doesn’t remember me.”