Page 2 of Hot Mess Express
“Ice caps can’t talk.”
“If only they could. Is this about that chick’s number?”
Pete stops at the intersection and doesn’t turn. Both hishands squeeze around the top of the wheel, eyes clenching. He takes an uneven breath, blows all the air out, then tap dances all over the pedals for half a minute like he’s trying unsuccessfully to evict the squirrel. He stops and grows still. “It’s been six years.”
“Since you’ve gotten laid?”
“Since he saved my life. Six … Six long years since Cody Davis saved my sorry life. And ask me how often I called to see how he is. Or what efforts I made to see him. Tothankhim. Couldn’t even take a leave when he got married. Couldn’t—fuck.” Pete droops his forehead onto the wheel in the narrow valley between his hills of knuckles. “How do you even begin to say how … how grateful you are? … and how sorry you are?”
“Why sorry?”
“Saving my life cost him his.” The turn signal keeps clicking away—click, click, click. “He had everything going for him in the Army. Everyone respected him. He was everything I could never be, and I took that away from him by being … well, by beingme.”
“You mean a secret dork with an Indiana Jones obsession?”
“Try an oblivious coward who couldn’t protect himself and needed saving.” He sounds on the verge of tears.
I don’t know why I tried to diffuse his tension with humor. My jokes never land. “Pete … you’re not a coward.”
“I shouted at him to move, and then he puts himself in front of me like a shield, and—Look, I’m not like you guys. Brave. Diving into the fires and the danger. Handsome and gets all the girls.”
Huh?“So … thisisabout the chick at the hotel?”
“Life’s so easy for you guys,” he mumbles, still talking with his face buried in the steering wheel like a sulking child. “You just … stand there and … and lifehappensfor you. Cody’s married now to the guy of his dreams. You get hit on by everyone.”
“No one’s hitting on me, Pete.”
“Everyonehits on you. You’re just oblivious and thick as mud with the sense of humor of a toad. You wouldn’t know if a guy was throwing himself at you if he literally threw himself at you.”
“Dude, I’ll give you her number.”
“I don’t want it anymore, it’s not about the stupid number.” Pete lifts his head off of the wheel and flings his eyes my way. “Do you know the last thing Cody said, six years ago, before the bomb? He said he’d drop dead before he returned to this shithole town.”
“But he’s married now. He’s happy. What’s the problem?”
“I stopped calling. I stopped writing back. I just … stopped.”
“Why?”
“Do you know how difficult this is for me?” His voice hardens. “Half the reason I’m even here is becauseyoutalked me into this.”
“Wait, me?”
“Yeah, Bridge, you. You said I needed to do this, that it’d do me good. Hell of a lot of good it’s doing. Think I’m getting ulcers.” He drops his eyes to the dash. “Tank’s almost empty. My fault, burning all our gas and killing the planet, circling these roads.”
“You meansquaringthem.” He doesn’t laugh. I really need to give it up with the jokes. “Pete … if you really don’t wanna do this, we can turn around right now. Get another night at that hotel. Maybe second time’s the charm, that chick might warm up to you. Cody waited all these years to see you. What’s one more night?”
He shrugs my hand off with a huff. “There you go, giving me a way out, enabling my cowardice. I’m not a baby.” He swipes at the turn signal again, switching it to the right, then stamps on the gas pedal, and I guess that’s his way of saying he’s gonnago through with this come hell or high water. I don’t care if he blames me for it or holds a grudge. The grudge won’t last. He needs to do this.
And I suppose I have nowhere else better to be.
Our final stop, barely three minutes from our destination, is a depressing gas station wasting away in this neglected countryside, painted in faded oranges and browns. A tall sign protrudes in front of it with its logo half peeled off, looking like it’s endured a dozen tornados in its long life and still stands proud, though I’m not sure “proud” is the right word. There’s not a soul in sight when we pull up to one of the only two spots at the pump. Falling off the edge of what I’ll reluctantly call a parking lot is a beaten-up truck, likely belonging to the poor clerk sentenced to work at this dump.
“Fill her up,” grunts Pete, “while I go get myself some big boy courage juice and a sandwich.”
I look at him. “From here? Are you that desperate to ingest a tapeworm?”
“Good point. I’ll powernap.” He cranks back his seat all the way, grabs his hat off the dash to cover his face, then leans back and crosses his arms tightly over his chest.
