Headlights(89)

I nod, again. “Okay,” I say.

She takes another breath. Then she steps toward me on the carpet. Body tense, nose plug still in. Then another step. I don’t move, not yet.

Up closer, and now that I’m finally allowing myself to look at her, really look at her maybe, I can clearly see the bruising on her cheek and brow bones, from the motel. I remind myself that she is the most likely culprit in all this, still. Even if she has the story she has, even if she’s here trying to figure things out. Even if seeing the bruises makes me want to hurt the person who did it. All of this could be a distraction. She could have been trying to get me somewhere alone. But to do what? Physically, I could overpower her, even as fast as she is. She might have the knife concealed beneath her sweater, in one of her pockets.

She takes another step toward me. My heart is pounding. She comes within two feet of me and stops. From this close, I have to look down at her. But her gaze has fallen. Her toes scrunch on the floor in her thick socks.

“Sorry,” she says, breathy, a little hoarse. “Just need a sec.”

I don’t move, not even an inch. I can smell her, ponderosa pine and campfire. Capsaicin. I can feel the heat coming off her body, as close as we are. My pulse throbs in my fingertips, on my injured hand. Everywhere.

Then, finally, she looks up and nods. Once, quickly. She swallows.

I don’t think, don’t let myself. I take the last step and close the distance between us.

Lee Hazlewood’s voice fills the room.

My right arm slides behind Hannah’s back—warmth, through her sweater, the dip of her lower back beneath my hand. My left hand takes her right, as best it can with the makeshift bandage, hold it out to the side. I pull her in a little closer.

She sucks in a breath at the contact, and I look to make sure it’s okay. She jerks her head in a slight nod.

Mom and me, at the Happy Inn. Rose.

The radio playing and Christmas string lights on the headboard and TV, the little dancing Santa in the corner. “Danny, come on, baby. I’m gonna show you how to dance.”

I squeeze my eyes tight.

Marianne at Whileago in the living room with the record player. Asking me to show her how to dance like my mom showed me. The two of us, later, in our new formal dancing lessons.

I feel lightheaded. This was the worst idea, and—

I open my eyes. It’s cold in here, really cold. Unnaturally. I blink the room into focus and look back down at Hannah. She nods, out of breath, biting her lip. I think I understand.

It’s working, is what she means. What we’re doing. This might actually work. We might be able to draw the thing out. Ask it what it wants from us, once and for all.

I think … we have to keep going. But it’s like my legs don’t know how to move, like I’ve forgotten how to be a body. Fear, through my whole body. Adrenaline. Just this dancing, just facing, allowing the memories. I close my eyes, try to breathe through it.

Hannah Lawrence squeezes the palm of my hand in hers. Warm, soft skin against the cold of the room. Her pulse beating through her palm so I can feel it against my own. I open my eyes, watch as her left hand moves slowly, carefully, up my right arm. Comes to rest at my shoulder. It shakes. When was the last time she touched someone? Touched someone by choice? This could be the first time in years. I think of her in the motel, Everett Brown taping her into the bed. Her hands shaking against me, against mine, or …

Blood.

I am here and not here, with this woman.

Bathtub.

With Hannah.

I blink at her. Focus in on only her, not the feeling of dancing, not the memories.

That pine and campfire smell. My hand against her sweater, the warmth of her body. The lines of her face, the pain written in all of them. Again, the useless thought.

She is so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at her.

How did this woman and I ever possibly get here?

Still. By focusing in on her, somehow, I start to move. We start to move.

Lee Hazlewood sings, the otherworldly strings of the song swelling, filling the room with us, and we turn slowly in a modified waltz. I lead, and she lets me. I don’t think it’s her first time doing this. The way she moves.

“You can learn a lot about someone from dancing with them,” Rose says.

Fuck.

Hannah. Shaking, more now.

It’s freezing.

Mom. I—

Shit. I close my eyes, open them again. My fucking heart.

The lights have dimmed, just a little. Flicker in a way that is familiar. It’s so cold now.

“It’s working,” I say. It comes out quiet, half-voiced. I’m not sure I could speak normally right now. Not sure I could do a lot of things.

Hannah nods, licks her lips again. “Yeah,” she says.

We waltz. The radio plays the song over from the beginning, a little crackly, staticky. Slightly discordant.

The cold starts to recede. No darkness pooling at the edges of the room.

I look to Hannah. She looks panicked also. It’s leaving. Why?

“Shit. Okay,” she says. “I can, um…” She closes her eyes in what looks like pain, and her hand is off my shoulder. She reaches up to her face and pulls the nose plug free. She gasps in an inhale, nostrils flaring, and she lets out a small whimper. She puts her left hand back on my shoulder, so tense.

“You okay?” I ask. We’re close, so close now. Freckles dust her nose. I couldn’t see it before, but there’s one, very small, at the corner of her mouth.