Page 16 of Over the Edge

“Fine. But you’re not allowed to complain if you think it’s boring,” he says, his shoulders stiffening like he’s preemptively bracing for my complaints, an interesting reaction from someone who wasjustcomplaining.

Garrett finally starts giving tidbits beyond what I can find in the audio walking tour that I found on the town’s outdated, beige website. I learn that the owners of the two flower shops, Winnie and Sara are divorced, which has led to a long-standing rivalry.

“Whatever one you step into first is where you’re pledging your loyalties. If you go to the other one after they’ll upcharge you. One time I was getting Alina flowers and Sara had closed early, so I went to Winnie’s and I’m still certain that whatever she put in the bouquet gave me a rash,” he explains and absentmindedly scratches at his forearm.

He gives the same treatment to the pub where everything is good except for the Tuesday special, fish tacos. Then he points down an alley that leads to a trail where the high schoolers sneak off to.

Sure, I’d like to linger at some of the shop windows longer than his brisk pace allows, but I can do that later. I have weeks for that. Watching Garrett take more care in talking about his hometown feels like I’ve stumbled upon light flowing through a cracked door that’s usually sealed shut. I doubt I’ll ever actuallyknow what he’s thinking, but that makes this glimpse all that more enticing.

I’m still struggling to picture the version of him that grew up here. To me he’s always been a city person, someone always pushing forward to the next best thing. It’s hard to imagine him walking lazily around the square on a summer afternoon with nowhere to be.

“I guess I’ll pretend not to know you in public then,” I say once we reach the edge of the parking lot where our cars are waiting. From the looks of it, he has the cherry red convertible that Alina was driving the other day. The image of his timeless features conjures images of drive-in movies or being picked up to go to a school dance in a way that I’ve never experienced. Not that I’d want it with him, and not that he’d ever do anything close to it. He’s made it clear he thinks those types of things are manufactured.

“No,” he says, stopping my hand from reaching for my keychain. “You asked for the real tour, so I’m going to give it to you.”

“Promise me that you’re not using this as an opportunity to take me to a murder spot.”

“Has anyone told you that you’d be terrible at committing a crime? I’d be the top suspect if you wound up dead,” he says. This time his exasperation doesn’t have much force behind it.

“I mean, you have the motive,” I say, pointing to his shirt then to mine. “And maybe I’m giving you credit for being smart enough to get away with it. You have this certain Patrick Bateman vibe.”

He rolls his eyes and walks to the car without checking if I’ll follow.

7

Evelyn

“If you didn’t want me to play certain songs then you shouldn’t have let me connect to the Bluetooth,” I call over the wind and music as I slip my phone between my thighs, securely where Garrett would never dare reach.

I’ve queued up enough music to last another hour. When we started the scenic drive thirty-something minutes ago, I eased in with one Fool’s Gambit song mixed in with other pop hits then I sprinkled in another, then another. With each I’ve increased frequency to the point that now it’s all Fool’s Gambit and nothing else.

“You have a gift,” he deadpans just loud enough that I can hear him.

Trees tower over us on either side, forming corridor walls leading up to the crystal clear sky. Most are green, but some have given way to the gold and reds of fall. The hues blur together as we rush by, wind causing loose strands of my hair to dance around my face. This is the type of place that sweeps you away,the memory imprinted in the back of your mind long after you leave so you crave it whenever you consider escaping real life.

“I have many to keep track of, which one are you concerned with at the moment?” Amusement threatens to curl my lips, and I have to actively contain a smile.

“The one where you crawl under my skin like a parasite and make my nightmares a reality.”

“Too easy. You need more creative nightmares.”

“I’ll work on that.” His eyes remain locked on the road in front of us but there’s something in the way that his jaw works that suggests an undertone of humor. “But it can't be too easy since you’re the only one who manages to do it so efficiently.”

“Oh.” Him acknowledging the tidal push and pull we’ve had throughout the years immediately makes it feel less like a game. For the first time, he’s made me speechless.

A few moments later, he pulls into a overlook that butts up against the rolling waters of the Hudson. We exit the car and head toward the sturdy wooden railing, the thick rungs weatherworn. The view goes straight across the water to even more trees as far as the eye can see. Buildings dot the land, and it’s tempting to shout and see if anyone could hear.

“It’s quite the view,” I say.

“Yeah. I used to come here when I needed space to think,” he explains. “Made me feel less trapped.”

I consider asking what he was breaking free from, but that feels like it would do a disservice to what he’s already shared. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

Water laps against the cliff. Birds twitter and chirp overhead. Wind whispers through the trees.

The moment reminds me of a song, “4’33”” composed by John Cage that can be played on any instrument and by any number of instruments. The piece is made up of four minutes and thirty-three seconds without a single note being played. It pushes theboundaries of what is considered music. The song is different every time because it’s comprised of what happens during that time. In a theater, that may be the rustle of programs and clothes or a latent whisper. Here, the sounds of nature give their texture and raw musicality. To me, the piece isn’t about the silence, it’s about listening.

On the drive back, my phone automatically connects to the sound system and I change the playlist to something that’s not designed with his torment in mind. When “Dream a Little Dream of Me” sung by Doris Day comes on, he bobs his head along.

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