“What if I say no?” I countered, arms crossed.
“I’d say you’re being awfully stubborn and acting like a typical young girl who isn’t getting her way,” he shot back. “And then I’d shrug, wipe my hands clean of this whole thing and go home.”
“To your girlfriend who doesn’t even care if you’re there or not?”
He threw down his napkin. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t care. I just think you’re chickenshit.”
“Excuse me?”
I could tell the anger was rising behind those eyes, but I didn’t care. I was past caring and beyond angry myself.
“That’s right,” I reinforced. “I think you are chickenshit. You’re happy to call this whole thing off just because you are too scared to go back there because you actually think I am telling the truth. And the truth scares you.”
He leaned in closer across the table and this time grabbed my forearm.
“You scare me, Perry,” he growled and gave my arm a sharp squeeze. “You.”
I eyed his grip. He met my eyes and then very slowly, hesitantly, released me.
“This is going to be a really awkward car ride back home, isn’t it?” I asked, a trace of amusement in my voice. The whole situation was ridiculous.
He sighed and leaned back, pushing his plate away from him.
“I hope I’m driving you as crazy as you’ve been driving me,” I said bluntly.
He shook his head and got out of the booth. “I’m going to go pay,” he muttered, despite the fact that I wasn’t done eating. It didn’t matter, though. I had had enough too—of the food, of everything. At least breakfast was free.
I watched him approach the till and decided it would be a good time to get a breath of fresh air before the hellish ride back.
I walked out of the diner and took in a deep breath. I closed my eyes and looked up at the sky, letting the rain fall on my face and feeling like it was washing away the dust that was accumulating inside my brain.
I exhaled through my lips, slowly and fully. I opened my eyes before I started to feel a bit off balance.
There was a woman, an old woman, standing directly in front of me. She was grinning a bright smear of red, waxy paint. The lipstick was on her yellowing teeth. My breath caught on the way out.
I had seen her before, in the lobby of my office.
I don’t know how long we stood there staring at each other. I felt paralyzed, unable to breathe, move or talk. She didn’t move either, just kept up that demonic grin.
She slowly reached over with a bony hand and placed it on my shoulder. Her hands were covered with many rusted cocktail rings; the white taffeta coat she was wearing had clownish puff balls on it. They were all different colors. Bright yellow, orange, red, blue and green. She really did look like some satanic clown’s aging mother.
She started to speak. Rather, her sticky red lips moved but no sound was coming out. She spoke like this for a few seconds before she finally said, “Declan.”
What about him? I thought inside my head, the terror competing with curiosity.
“He’s got some stories to tell,” she whispered, her voice low, almost metallic sounding, as if she was speaking through a phone. There was a familiar accent on certain syllables. “He’ll tell you, one day. About what happened to him. You just need to watch him. Watch out for him. Closely. You’re cut from the same cloth.”
She took away her hand, and with her eyes focused on the diner, walked straight inside as her coat ruffled behind her in the light breeze.
I stood still, my breath coming back. I realized I was soaked to the bone from the rain (and maybe sweat); I didn’t care. I looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed what just happened, but there was no one on the wet, grey street.
I looked back at the diner and took a hesitant step toward it, wondering why she had gone in there and if anyone else noticed how fucking freaky she was. I dipped low, trying to see inside through the dark tint and the stupid food paintings. I couldn’t make out anything except a few shadows of people sitting down at their tables. I put my face at the window and cupped my hands around it, not caring if anyone inside saw me trying to be a Peeping Tom.
I had thought I saw some sort of commotion, when the door flung open and Dex burst outside. I jumped a few inches off the ground and almost knocked my head against the glass. He looked around him—pure panic in his eyes—and then spotted me.
He reached over and grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly towards him. “We’ve got to go. Now.”
We ran over to the car. My mind was racing. What was going on? Who was that lady and why did she warn me about Dex? Watch out for him? What did that even mean?
I jumped in the passenger seat and barely closed the door before Dex stomped on the gas and the SUV rocketed down the street, veering side to side on the slick roads. I decided to heed her advice. I would keep an eye on him. He looked like a man possessed.
I turned my head to look back at the diner, but Dex yelped, “Don’t look back there. Keep looking forward.”
Heart in my throat, I did what he said.
“What the fuck just happened?” I squeaked out once he brought the car off of the street and on to the highway.
He just shook his head, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were a hard shade of white.
“Dex! Talk to me! Slow down!” I yelled as the car went skidding around a corner, water flying everywhere, my body straining against the seatbelt.
He kept his foot on the gas, speeding in deathly silence.
He reached over and locked all the doors in the car.
Watch Dex, indeed. I felt like he would be the last thing I would ever see.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We were speeding crazily around the wet corners on the 101 heading north. With the doors locked for some inexplicable reason, and Dex refusing to utter a word or even look my way, I was on the narrow verge of having a freak out.
It was obvious that Dex was having one himself as the look of absolute fear never left his eyes. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to grab hold of the steering wheel and pull the car over myself. But as strong as I was, he was no doubt stronger and in this weather I’d probably end up flipping the car, or worse.
I wondered if screaming would help, or if pleading would help, or if crying would help. Billy Joel was still playing from the speakers, which made the situation even more absurd.
And then it dawned on me. I knew what it was. I knew what Dex was afraid of. It all made sense. He saw it, her, with his own eyes.
“You saw her,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “Didn’t you?”
Dex’s hands tightened on the wheel though his foot came off of the pedal slightly. His eyes darted towardsme and then back to the road again.
I leaned in closer, careful not to invade his space.
“I saw her too,” I confided. “And I’ve seen her before that, back in Portland. She told me things.”
Dex’s brow furrowed. “What did she say?”
“So you did see her!”
He ignored me. “What did she tell you?”
“Pull over and I’ll tell you. I won’t talk to you while you’re like this. You’re going to get us both killed.”
Just like that, Dex stepped on the brakes and yanked the Highlander down a rural road flanked by waving chestnut trees. The car lurched to a stop and he impatiently flipped the gear into park and flicked off the ignition.
He took off his seatbelt and adjusted himself in his seat so he was facing me. The rain was falling hard on the roof. I had always found that to be one of the most soothing sounds and this time was no different.
“Talk,” he commanded bluntly. His eyes were noncommittal; his long, wide mouth was set in a grim line. His hat had slid down a bit, adding shadows to his face. The front of his hair flopped onto his forehead.
I reached over and tilted the hat’s brim up off his brows and gently smoothed his hair to the sides. His forehead was hot and smooth underneath my hands; his hair slightly damp from sweat and hair product.
Touching him felt strangely intimate, like I was really seeing him for the first time. I don’t know why I did it; I guess some part of me instinctively wanted to soothe him. It was the first time I’d seen him look remotely vulnerable.
I was only a hand’s length away from his face. His eyes, though unreadable, were looking deep into mine. I could have easily sat there for a long time just staring at him, holding his gaze. If I imagined hard enough, I could almost see lightning flowing between us in an unbroken line.
But the more I stared at him like that, the more I became conscious of how much of a psycho I must have looked.
I took my hand off of his forehead and dropped my eyes to the seat. The bolts were broken. I noticed how heavily my heart was beating in my chest. What was it about this man that agitated not only my mind but my heart as well?
There was only one way to find out. I took a deep breath and dove in.
“Last week at work,” I said, “I was waiting for the elevator. There was no one in the lobby, or so I thought. Then I noticed this lady sitting, totally motionless, on the couch. She was like no one I had ever seen before. Like someone out of a David Lynch film, almost.”
I met his eyes again. They had never left mine, like they were waiting for my gaze to return to his. I felt like he was trying to hypnotize me. I was torn between feeling self-conscious and wanting to look away, or to fall deeper into them and lose myself. Then there was that accompanying feeling of tightness in my chest, the feeling that I wasn’t getting enough air, and that I was drowning in this indescribable whirlpool.