Page 30 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

Suddenly, I feel Billy’s hand on top of mine on the console. He squeezes it.

“You have me for backup if you need me,” he says, returning his hand to the steering wheel. Of course it’s crossed my mind why he’s going so very far out of his way to help me. I’m not a fool. Most people pity me, which is something that I detest, of course, but it’s something I have grown accustomed to. That could be it.Also, he wanted to catch up over dinner. We were friends once. I don’t know if Shelby’s assessment of his feelings for me are true or not, but that was many years ago, and time and grief have utterly deteriorated me now. I know how pale and bone thin I’ve become—I’m not blind—and preoccupied with Leo, and depressed, and unfriendly, and exhausted. Who in their right mind would turn their head for me now? Nobody, which is why I think pity is likely his motivation for being so helpful. And right now, I guess I’ll take it…as pathetic as that feels to say. I just want answers, and I need somebody’s help.

Toasty’s is right off exit 42 and sits across from a gas station and Norma’s Pie Palace. A series of lampposts light up the icy parking lot where a couple of big rigs are parked sideways along the side of the lot closest to the freeway, and only a handful of other cars are parked in front of the orange glowing windows of the diner. Billy parks and I stare at the app. I turn behind me and point.

“It’s…there,” I say, looking toward a parked tow truck. “Holy crap. It says it’s right there.”

I leap out of the car and run across the slippery lot and when I reach the place the dot on the app shows, I bang my knuckles against the truck’s passenger window and then swing the door open and step up into the rig.

“Jesus!” The man in the driver’s seat yells, gripping his seat and looking around in fear, probably to see if he’s about to be carjacked or something. He was watching a video on his phone and laughing with his feet up on the dash before I terrified him. The heat from the cab of the truck billows out along with the smell of Arby’s smokehouse brisket and sweet tobacco. I slide into the empty seat next to him and point at his phone. My mouth opens, but no words come at first and he just sits there frozen, his eyes bulging for a couple of moments.

“What the fuck?” he yells as I grab the phone from his grip in one fell swoop.

“Where did you get this?” I demand. “Is Leo with you? Is he inside?” I look to the diner doors, making sure he won’t escape me no matter what.

“Who?” he asks, shaking his head and trying to grab the phone back.

“Where is he?” I scream at the man, and he looks frightened now. “Where did you get this?” I yell, and I know it’s Leo’s because I bought him the stupid phone case with the purple Vikings logo on the back.

“Jesus, lady. I found it, okay? All’s I did was find it, and then I turned it on, but it died pretty quick and then I went and got a charger at Dollar General ’cause it had Netflix on it and I thought why not?”

“When?” I ask.

“Couple weeks ago.”

“You thought, why not steal a phone?”

“Yeah, I did. I thought why the fuck not because you know why? Because I ate a piece of peanut brittle my aunt Rhonda made for Christmas that I left in my glove box too long so it was kinda frozen and when I took a bite, I broke my tooth. And when I called the dentist, he said it will cost six hundred bucks that I don’t have, and now I got an exposed nerve that hurts like a motherfucker and I don’t even get back to Brainerd for four more days anyway. And I have to ask my sister, Linda, to borrow money, and she’s gonna give me a lot of shit about it before she’ll give it to meandshe’ll make me babysit her fucking kids…and they’re repulsive, and I can’t even enjoy the rest of the damn Christmas freakin’ peanut brittle. So, yeah. I saw it sitting there and thought I would watch some free Netflix so my ninety-minute break wouldn’t be so fucking miserable. Sue me!”

“You found the phone in Brainerd?” I ask, ignoring the rest of everything he said.

“No. It was in a motel room I was staying in outside Rivers Crossing. In a nightstand drawer, so I didn’t really steal it then, did I?”

“What’s the motel?” I asked, stunned, unable to think straight, trying to make sense of how he has Leo’s phone.

“Lumberjack’s over by the Waffle House and that new brewery,” he says and I shove the phone in my pocket, then climb down from the cab of his truck and slam the door behind me. I walk numbly back to Billy, who stands nearby, hugging himself against the cold wind and watching me without interfering, which I appreciate because most men would have tried to play hero or attempted not to let me get in this guy’s truck or interfered in one way or another.

“Not Leo?” he asks as I approach, and I shake my head and walk past him toward the warmth inside the front doors of Toasty’s. He follows, jogging ahead a few steps and opening the door for me.

Inside, we sit at an old weathered booth and I don’t speak yet. I think the shock is still settling in. I was sure it would lead to him. I saw it all unfolding. The details are fuzzy; the whys elude me, but I clearly envisioned him in front of me again: not dead, not on the arm of some secret girlfriend, not high on drugs. Not any of the other explanations I have come up with over the months about why he would have vanished like this, but just there, alone, and so, so sorry. He got in way over his head with the money and the lies, and thought it would be better for me if he disappeared, and then he’d beg my forgiveness. But all I got was a tow truck driver watchingLove Islandon Leo’s phone in a diner parking lot. How is this my life?

I look at the giant plastic menu on the table in front of me. The walls are papered forest green with a pine tree pattern and the floors are old, chipped linoleum. A cat rubs itself against one of the vinyl stools at the dessert counter and then disappears into the back. There are only two other customers, an elderly man smoking a cigarette, hunched over a cup of coffee at a two-topper and another man sits at the bar,pouring copious amounts of syrup onto a stack of hotcakes. The waitress finally puts her phone in her apron and notices us.

“A double bourbon on the rocks,” I say as she approaches, before she even asks.

“Uh. It’s a diner, sweetheart” is all she says, and I’m supposed to know what that means, I guess.

“What?”

“It’s 24/7 breakfast. Ain’t no booze here, sorry,” she says, placing a pot of coffee in front of us instead, and my skin prickles with annoyance.

“Scooter’s across the highway is your only option. There’s a polka band tonight though, so go at your own risk.”

“I, for one, love polka,” Billy says, trying to make it okay if I want to drag him around the middle of nowhere for even longer and drink myself to oblivion, so just to make sure he doesn’t think I’m completely unstable or some kind of alcoholic who needs to run to the polka bar to numb myself when we could both use a cup of coffee or better yet, some sleep, I just sigh and look at the menu again.

“I’ll have the big country breakfast with the fried eggs, hash browns, and the strawberry pancake slam.”

“Whipped cream?” she asks.

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