More Than I Could (2)

“She’s your sister too. Have you ever called her for advice?”

We laugh at the same time. Kate’s a firecracker. You risk setting your problems on fire if you ask Kate for help.

“Eh, maybe I’m better off without Alyssa, anyway,” Luke says. “Fucking the same person is a dead-end sport.”

My forehead wrinkles. “How do you go from one extreme to the other? Two seconds ago, you were fucked up because she was gone. Now you’re happy about it?”

“I just got my feelings hurt. I want her to want me.”

“You want everyone to want you.”

“Yes. I do. Not all of us are content with jacking off for the rest of our life.”

Here we go.

I frown and grip the steering wheel tighter.

My family’s ongoing push for me to find—I don’t even know what it would be called at this age—a girlfriend? Significant other? God forbid, a wife? I don't want one, whatever it’s called when you’re sniffing forty.

Am I against casual sex? It’s great for Luke. Do I have a problem with dating? Gavin loves it. Is marriage a social construct that works in the modern world? Mallet’s wedding was the happiest day of his life—if you ignore the fact that the union ended in divorce. And I’m certain Kate will have the biggest damn wedding the world has ever seen someday, and an enormous brood of kids too. Everything for that girl is extra.

Relationships, in all their forms, are great … for some people. I even understand the draw. But I also understand the drawbacks, and quite frankly, I’m not interested in failing another human being in my life.

“You know what?” I ask, redirecting the conversation away from me. “You need to let Alyssa go. Just forget she exists.”

“Why?”

“Because you can.”

The line goes quiet while he ponders my suggestion.

The rain eases as I approach the bridge over Peachwood Creek. Through the drizzle, I spot a car on the other side of the waterway. It’s barely pulled off to the side of the road.

What’s going on here?

“What do you mean because you can?” Luke asks.

“You were fine with her leaving at the start of this conversation,” I say, leaning forward and squinting to get a better look at the car. “If you can let her leave, you need to let her leave. Make sense?”

“Not really.”

I squeeze the back of my neck in frustration.

I don’t have time for this—any of it.

Luke rattles on, weighing the pros and cons of monogamy. On the other hand, I peer down at the white car sitting askew with its lights off. This is not unusual; many locals know this area is ripe for hunting and fishing. But locals typically drive vehicles with four-wheel drive if they’re going to hit the backroads.

I slow down, hoping to see some dipshit climbing out of the ditch with a fishing pole. If that's the case, I can go home and get these wet clothes off. But something tells me that won’t be the case.

As I roll by, I can’t help but notice the glow of a cell phone in the driver’s seat.

Shit.

I ease my foot off the accelerator and assess my options.

Do I go on? No one is asking for my help, after all. Or do I stop? Because someone might be in trouble.

I want to keep going.

“Are you still here?” Luke asks.

Groaning, I hit the brake. I have to stop, or else it’ll bother me all night.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I say, ignoring the sudden weight on my shoulders.

I throw the truck in reverse and roll backward until my passenger’s side window lines up with their driver’s side door. “Luke, I gotta go. There’s a car parked half-assed on the side of the road by Peachwood Creek.”

“That’s weird.”

“I know.”

“Well, enjoy,” he says.

“Yeah. Bye.”

“Later.”

I shift the truck into park and rest my head against the seat. My eyes fall closed. Please have stopped to make a call and don’t need real help.

Water splashes around my boots as they hit the ground. I tug the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and approach the front of the vehicle. A cool breeze—the same one I’ve battled all day—washes over me, reminding me that a hot shower, sausage, and mushroom pizza are just down the road.

The windows are foggy, but someone moves as I get closer. I don’t know what I expect—someone to roll down the window? Crack the door? Step outside the car? Regardless, none of those things happen. Nothing happens.

What the fuck?

I rap against the glass with the back of my knuckle. “What’s going on?”

My hands go into my pockets, and I wait.

Nothing.

Frustrated, I clench my jaw. “Do you need help?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice muffled. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Okay? “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Out of gas?” I ask.

“I don’t think so.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Are you confused?”

“No, I’m not confused,” she says as if offended by the question.

I roll my eyes. “Look, if you don’t need help, I’m gonna go.”