Page 18 of The Delivery

“I do it all the time. I like to go to the Greyhound bus station. We’re coming right up on it. The coffee is bad, but they’re open twenty-four hours and they give away the day-old Danish when the shifts change.”

We grew up in Oak Park, to the north of the city. A lot of families later moved to West Bloomfield when they could afford the real estate. But we stayed in the same house we’ve always been in. It’s not surprising considering my mom doesn’t even know her way around downtown Detroit.

The streetlights all have rainbow orbs through the wet car window. I’d think we were in a winter wonderland if I didn’t already know what a dump it is under the snow.

“You go there ‘cause you’re strapped for cash? Aren’t you doing workstudy?”

“What? Oh yeah. No, I just like stuff better when it’s free.”

He’s pulling into the bus station parking lot as he says it. I want to make an excuse about Mom and Dad waiting up for us but he’s right, they’re probably sound asleep. Who am I to diss his hangout? My Friday night sports bar may serve fresher food but his joint is probably more poetic—or at least better for people watching. Not as many drunks.

We trudge through the parking lot in the slushy, dirty snow. Lex holds the door open for me and bows as he does it, and I grin at his show. This is what I mean by weird. No one should come here voluntarily, let alone enjoy it. The bus station. The second most terrible place in the world, coming in at number two, right after the post office.

We sit at the bar, which faces the wall. Two steaming cups of black coffee with oil streaks on top. Two bruised and bent day-old Danish, mine has orange jelly, his red. I take a bite and swivel in my chair to watch the action as Lex sighs into his cup.

“What do you do? Make up stories in your head about the different people you see? Or do you bring your homework? Tell me again why the hell you come here? Do they have Wi-Fi at least?”

I dunk my Danish into the coffee and take another bite of the rubbery thing.

“This is disgusting,” I say with my mouth full. “What are we doing here?”

“Wait, watch the gate. A bus just pulled in.”

Almost everyone in the large open space is either sleeping or squatting. The air smells like hotdogs and canned heat, flat soda and popcorn. Everyone in here needs a change of clothes and a bath either from homelessness or weeklong bus rides. It’s hard to tell the difference. What I can tell is how depressing it is and it’s making me glad I left Detroit and the entire Midwest.

“Here they come. Get a load of this!”

He’s excited. This is pathetic. I think I might need a drink.

“Bus originated in LA. Maybe you’ll see someone you know.”

“Pfft. Yeah right. I have one friend, and I know where she is. She’s in the office picking up all of my slack as we speak.” But I guess juvenile delinquents do often travel by bus. And I know me some juvies, I know them by the busload.

The passengers straggle off, and I immediately see what he’s taking about. They’re excited to have finally arrived. You can feel it in the air. One frazzled looking young mother is greeted warmly by her parents as their grandkids jump ecstatically and shove each other out of the way, both vying for hugs. Mom looks run through the ringer but I can see the relief in her face.

Next an overweight man who uses a cane, totters down the stairs right into the embrace of a younger man, who can only be his son. They are opposite extremes of the same person. Dad is fat and bald, and son is skinny and hairy, but they share the same face. They hug then step back and look at each other then rush in again for another one. Both of their faces turning red.

“I totally get it. This is awesome. But now I feel like we should redo our reunion from the airport. Ours was too boring.”

“Right? It’s so depressing and then suddenly it’s beautiful. Wait until you see a departure.”

I get my brother. I really do. And I might be the only person on the planet who does. But now it’s sad again. That he does this alone, like he has to feed off of other people’s emotions.

The bus driver flips the signs, they spin inside the lit-up screen, Chicago and Philadelphia get passed over, finally settling on New York. There’s a lull in the exodus, so the bus must be nearly empty. But then I see the shadow of someone exiting through the bus’ windshield, carrying way too many things. He ambles down the steps with a large, framed backpack and a guitar. He’s dressed in black and looking down, but when he raises his face up I can tell it’s Mozey Cruz.

“Oh shit,” I say, swiveling my chair around, my face just inches from the wall. I grab my coffee and gulp it, the bitter badness of it racing down. My throat is burned, and I cough like a mad woman, my eyes tearing up at the same time.

I swivel back again and squint my eyes at him. I took my contacts out on the plane. My glasses are in my luggage. But I can sense this guy better than I can see.

“That. Is. Fucking. Impossible!”

“Even when they arrive alone, they’re still happy to get off the bus,” Lexi says, glossing over my reaction.

“No. I know that guy!” I say, slapping his arm. Not to mention I’m attracted to him.

“Wow, really? That is so cool! Go act like you’re excited to see him, it looks like he arrived alone.”

I swivel back around and gobble the Danish, self-conscious of my own existence. Why the hell are we in the same place? I’m here for housing court. It’s not like we’re both traveling home for Christmas! Act normal. Act normal! Stop devouring day old baked goods. Do I acknowledge him? No, I pretend I didn’t see him. I explicitly told him he could not come! He obviously didn’t listen to me.

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