Nathan watched her sitting on the car as she covered her face and caved inward, like a turtle retreating into its shell. She became a tiny speck on the midsize sedan, which might have been the saddest thing he’d ever seen. “Is she crying?”
“Dunno.” Dillon slapped his arm. “I’m starving. You want to get burgers at The Stand?”
Nathan reached into his pocket and handed Dillon a hundred-dollar bill along with his keys. “It’s on me. Bring back some fries if they’re open.” He gestured toward the movie screen. “I’m going to stay for the late show.”
Dillon stuffed the cash in his jeans. “You’re really going to stay here to watch an old space movie?”
“Starship Troopers is an anti-fascist satire.”
“Alone?”
“Just me and my thoughts.” Nathan shivered. The temperature had plummeted since they’d arrived. He pointed to the car. “And my hoodie. Pop the trunk.”
Rachel had come to the drive-in because it was the last place anyone would look for her. Her Saturday nights were usually spent drinking white wine at fundraisers, not watching action movies with greasy popcorn. It was also past midnight. She and Matt would normally be ready for bed by now, guzzling big glasses of water to chase down the drinks they’d had at the party. She would have popped an Advil before they traded notes on how the evening went with a chasm of space between them in their king-sized bed.
After thirteen years of marriage, she’d settled into the predictable rhythms of their life. But now she knew that they were all lies. Now she was sitting on the hood of the car he’d given her for Christmas, chugging whiskey mixed with a fountain drink the size of her thigh, wondering if he’d fucked his mistress in the back seat before putting that big red bow on top. He probably looked at her now the same way he did that old Honda Accord. “The car is fine, Rache, but we were long overdue for an upgrade.”
She used to be wilder. Braver. The girl who dove headfirst into whatever caused the most damage. Making scary, life-altering choices was proof that she was living instead of merely existing. It was the reason she pursued an art career with an obsessive focus that eschewed any other marketable skills. It was how she ended up in Oasis Springs fifteen years ago with no money, a busted car, and a six-year-old who hadn’t eaten more than a bag of Funyuns for three days. It was the reason she’d initially placed Matt in the fuck-and-dump category. He was too nice and eager. Like her pussy was a math quiz he wanted to ace with extra credit.
But there was also a cockiness to the way he pursued her. If she said she wasn’t interested in anything serious, he would counter with reasons she was the woman he’d eventually marry. She’d never been loved like that before: like a wish that had finally come true. Rachel eventually trusted that feeling, and even though she’d never really believed in happy endings, she’d believed in Matt. He was supposed to be her safe place.
Rachel stared at the few cars left in the parking lot. The drivers were all so young. Her eyes were drawn to a red Camaro with two girls in the back seat. She used to love cars like that, with their loud, growling engines. Now she wouldn’t consider one that wasn’t at least a fuel-efficient hybrid. Matt was the first person in their neighborhood to go electric.
Two guys stood near the Camaro, a short blond with a pair of keys dangling from his fingers, and a tall, dark-haired one rifling through the trunk. She could hear the girls’ high-pitched squeals of “Nate, come with us!” that went unanswered.
The tall one, Nate apparently, had a sweatshirt balled under his arm like a football. He didn’t look like a Nate. His black hair was cut into an intricate low fade they didn’t offer at the high-end salons that shaped Matt’s preppy crew cuts. He had golden-brown skin and colorful tattoos covering one arm. A snow-white T-shirt, stretched over large biceps and broad shoulders, completed his best-kind-of-trouble look. The name Nate was too short and simple, gone just as quickly as you said it. He looked like someone who would linger.
Matt fit his name. He was handsome in a generic way that forced him to rely on charm and earnestness when asking someone on a date. This Nate probably hoarded his compliments like war rations. A guy like him could ignore his girlfriend’s calls, party all night on do not disturb, and wake up the next day sure that her devotion would be exactly where he left it. Rachel used to think that way too. She used to look in the mirror and see herself as someone with options.
Her cup was still almost full. She’d chosen Dr Pepper, but after a few gulps, remembered she didn’t like the taste. Maybe she didn’t know herself anymore. If someone said, “You can have any drink you want,” she’d probably stutter and ask for a menu.