Adam has his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms are more muscular than I would’ve expected. He’s not big, but he’s probably strong.
When the kitchen closes, the red-headed kid leaves. Before the door swings shut, I hear the frantic howl of a pack of boys out on The Commons, and that lightning-storm feeling takes over my stomach again and won’t go away.
* * *
At ten p.m. the only people left are Adam, a table of students working on a project, and a guy in the corner reading Stephen King. Carly turns the front door sign to CLOSED, but none of them seem to notice.
I count the drawer because Carly says her brain feels like it’s full of pipe cleaner fuzz. “Not the wires, just the fuzz. Green and yellow, mostly.” Her smile tells me she’s being strange on purpose. This is her humor and I think I get it. Maybe.
Now that she thinks I lied about school I am too scared to make my problem her problem. I need my job too much to risk asking about her couch. But I remember one time some truckers at Margo’s talked about boondocking at Wal-Mart instead of paying for a hotel and you’re allowed to sleep in those parking lots. I decide on the way out, I’ll ask Carly where the nearest Wal-Mart is. She doesn’t have to know why I’m asking. People don’t think about Wal-Marts that way. She’ll probably assume I’m out of toothpaste or toilet paper, because she probably thinks I’m a normal enough person with a normal enough place to sleep.
Carly dumps the rest of the drip coffee and unplugs the espresso maker while I band up bills and slip them in the bank bag.
“Alright, guys,” Carly shouts to the remaining customers, “you don’t have to go home, but I don’t want you.”
I run to the kitchen while they pack up to leave, so I don’t have to talk to Adam.
It’s warm in the kitchen. I wish there was a way to store that warmth inside me. It will be cold in that Wal-Mart parking lot and I will be alone in that car and instead of raccoons there will be truckers.
I hear Carly saying goodbye to customers and then she comes back to the kitchen. We put our coats on.
“Whoo, today felt twice as long,” she says, winding her scarf around her neck as we walk to the front door.
All the words I need to ask are right there in my brain, ready. But Adam is waiting outside.
“Cold tonight,” he says as Carly locks the door. He blows clouds into the air. I want him to go away. In the shadow of the doorway his face is hidden and I can’t remember what his eyes look like.
“Yeah, you’re not kidding,” Carly says, shoving her bare hands in her pockets. “Where are you parked?”
“Oh, I walked,” Adam says, even though I’m sure Carly was talking to me.
“That way.” I point toward State Street, but with a vague gesture, so I won’t give Adam too much information.
“Well, I’m over there,” she says, jogging in place. “See you!” Before I can ask about her couch or Wal-Mart, she’s bounding away like she can outrun the weather.
I’m left with Adam and he ruined my chance and I shouldn’t go home with him. You don’t go home with men you don’t know. I am certain Margo would say that. I don’t want to ask him where Wal-Mart is, because if he knows about boondocking, he’ll know where to find me, and maybe asking will insult him. Margo would also say you have to watch out about making men mad.
“My place is up the hill.” Adam points in the opposite direction of my car.
“Have a good night,” I say, trying to keep my words friendly.
“Do you want—”
“I’ve got it figured out. Have a good night.” I run away at the same pace Carly did, so hopefully it looks like I’m running because of the weather, not because I’m trying to escape.
— Chapter 14 —
There’s a party four houses down from where I parked. I don’t have the energy to walk over and see if it’s a place where I could spend time. All the people who came into the coffee shop left words in my head and I just want quiet.
The streetlight flickers. We don’t even have streetlights in Little River. When it’s dark, it’s just dark, and if you need light, you bring your own. I get in my car and don’t start the engine.
I’m not sure where to drive. I could go to the gas station and ask about Wal-Mart, but it feels like so much effort for something that might not be better. I know how to get back to the campground, and from there, if I follow the road north along the lake, eventually I’ll find the sign for the highway. Maybe I could stay at the motorhome again for a few days before anyone noticed. I miss the company of my tiny TV and knowing what the land around me looks like even when it’s dark. I recognize the men who stumble home after Gary’s closes. I know their children. I understand who’s dangerous and how to hide from them, mostly. I don’t know these boys shouting at the party, and the streetlights make me feel like a doll in a display case.