“Look. I’ve apologized. You’ve apologized. So that’s it,” Tallie said, minutes away from the bridge.
“So that’s it,” he said quietly, parroting her to the glass of the passenger window.
Those minutes were biblically torturous, as if they’d been planned out by some cruel god. The tension, thick and solid, as if the car had been filled with concrete.
As they approached the bridge, Tallie thought she might puke. If she could stop the car and lean out, purge herself, she could feel better. How was he feeling? Angry but relieved? Sad but angry? Humans could feel a million different ways at the same time. It wasn’t like one emotion politely cleared out to make way for another. Most often they smudged together like daubs of paint, mixing and making new colors and feelings altogether.
A few cars—some red taillights and the occasional flash and disappearance of headlights. The night had fallen like a lid on a pot. The bridge was lit up, and there was a skinny walkway and crisscross of metal that was merely aesthetic. Rye had climbed over the railing easily on Thursday. If someone were determined to jump from the bridge, the railing would be of no consequence. Tallie pulled her car aside and shut it off, punched on her hazards the same way she’d done on Thursday. All roads led back to that bridge in an ever-widening gyre.
“Here’s your bridge,” she said, nauseated. She hoped he’d back off and finally let this go once he saw it. That’s what she prayed. She needed water. There was an old water bottle in the driver’s-side cup holder. It crinkled in her hands and she took a plasticky drink, choked it down. She needed fresh water, food, a solid ten hours of sleep.
Rye stared straight ahead.
“Okay.”
“Okay, then.”
“Thank you,” he said when he looked at her. He put his hand on the door handle without pulling it.
“This is what you want? Really, Rye? This? What do you want, Rye? What do you want?” Tallie said with a swelling panic, like an orchestra tuning before playing the discordant devil’s chord. Nope. No way could she let him get out of the car.
“I mean it when I say thank you. And here: this is for you, too,” he said, unzipping his backpack and pulling out the envelope of cash. He held it out for her, and when she wouldn’t take it, he put it on the dash.
“I’m not taking your money. I told you this,” she said.
“What do you charge for a therapy session by the hour? Two hundred dollars? Seventy-two hours together at two hundred dollars an hour, that’s fourteen thousand, four hundred dollars. There’s around ten thousand in there. I’ll mail you the rest,” he said. The delicate, low orange light of the streetlamp—numinous and scumbled—pressing his window like a promise.
“Rye, you’re not my client,” Tallie said, remaining as calm as possible. She knew how important it was when speaking with someone who was upset. She was upset, but there was no one there for her. She was alone, very alone, shuttering her windows from the raging wind of her own strong emotions for the greater good. Again.
“I’m not taking the money back,” he said, looking at her with soft eyes, not the hard, haunted ones she’d seen earlier.
“Can I take you somewhere else? Let’s not do this. Where else can I take you? I’m sure you’re as exhausted as I am. We’re running low on sleep and high on every possible emotion.”
“I forgive you. I’m not mad at you. Honestly. Thank you, Miss Tallie,” he said, pulling the handle.
“Rye, I’m not mad at you, either. I forgive you, too. And I’m not giving up on you! I’m not,” Tallie said, finally crying in a series of fragmented sobs. Primitive, desperate sounds escaped her mouth.
“Thank you so much, Miss Tallie,” he said, stepping out of the car with his jacket and backpack.
Tallie swung her legs out of the car, walked through the dread. A truck zoomed past with deep bass rattling its fiberglass before the world went quiet. The rain had put the earth through a full rinse cycle; the river perfumed metallic. She felt as if she could reach out and touch the black velvet darkness. She wanted to snatch it back like a curtain and reveal another world where this wasn’t happening.
“Rye. Please don’t do this. I won’t let you do this,” she said, raising her voice as he continued walking toward the railing.
Just quiet.
She prayed the first Bible verse that came to her mind, aloud. Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent. Rye stood still, listening. He turned around and closed his eyes to the night. Was he smiling?