20 Million Tiny Particles

14. Bryce, II

We met up at the familiar parking lot we'd frequented after school, the fluorescent yellow of the McDonald's arch looming over us. He got there before me, which was good. If I'd had to wait, I might not have even parked the car.

"Hey, Jeep," he said in his old way, comforting and chilling all at the same time. He nodded at the car. "Hope you didn't drive drunk."

So it was obvious? I shook my head quickly. "I didn't," I assured him. I'd brushed my teeth before slipping out the door, past Ava asleep under a blanket on the couch. No one would smell any lingering strawberries and cream Svedka on my breath.

I didn't feel drunk. And it wasn't a long drive. And sure, I'd probably regret it in the morning, tell myself I couldn't believe I did it, that it was so out of character, that it wasn't really me. But I knew it was, and I knew that I didn't really regret it all. It sure as hell wasn't the first bad choice I'd made for him.

He let out a loud sigh, scratched at his hair, clearly wondering which of us would start this. I couldn't remember now if it was me or him who pulled the trigger and extended the invitation to meet up, but I knew in a few months when I looked back through my texts, it would still be there to remind me and tell the story of this particular bad decision.

"How are you?" I managed to choke out. I quickly tugged at the corner of my eye, desperately hoping he couldn't see that I'd been crying, that I may still be. I couldn't even tell.

He looked to the ground, kicked at a pebble on the black asphalt. We were standing between our cars, alone in the parking lot aside from one or two employee cars parked beyond the McDonald's building, much too far away to see us standing at odds with each other, unsure how to position ourselves, how close was too close and how far was too far.

We were standing the same way we had been with Sheridan. Just some people who knew each other. Just business.

Would he tell Sheridan about this? Would I?

"I'm okay," is how he answered, a little shrug of his shoulders in his red hoodie.

There wasn't much of a breeze tonight, but I too had thrown a jacket over my t-shirt as I dashed out the door, hoping to cover every inch of myself.

He dragged out a how-are-you in my direction, his eyes occluded by a shadow.

I heard myself laugh, an unexpected burst of relief. I looked to the sky, little white dots piercing through the depths of black above and all around us. "I'm really not good." I laughed again, then found myself choking back a wave of tears. Fingers to my thighs, digging into skin through the fabric of my clothes. I wished I had my water bottle, not for the liquor but for the distraction.

You can't cry when you're drinking something. What she told me at the funeral parlor.

Was that how it started for her too?

I let out a deep breath and repeated myself.

"I'm -- I'm really not okay."

I half-expected him to make a motion toward me, a hug or a shoulder pat or anything, any dumb gesture of comfort. He gave me nothing. He said maybe I should see someone. "A counselor," he clarified. "There's someone at my church --"

I laughed again, now a steady stream of chuckling that surprised us both. "I don't want to see a counselor."

"So why are we here, Julie?"

He was looking at me. He was frustrated. I didn't know the answer. It was easier to laugh. "Why are you here?" I asked him right back.

"I want to help you. I'm scared for you."

Was he scared for me, or was he scared of what might happen to me?

I tried to speak but when I did, it was all water -- tears upon tears upon saliva that I swallowed back. I shut my eyes. There was nothing to say.

He moved toward me then, put his arms around me and pulled me into his hoodie, so thick with the scent of him that I knew from before. I cried into his stiff shoulder knowing he didn't want to be here. He didn't want to do it but he did -- did we have that trait in common?

He didn't say anything. Neither of us did until eventually I let out a quiet bullet into the side of his neck. "I miss you."

So selfishly so.

I heard him sigh. He pulled back. He stopped looking at me. I said I was sorry.

"This isn't good, Julie. You and me. It's -- it was never a good idea."

"Why?" My voice cracked. It wasn't like me to ask. I was so tired. I could taste the sting of strawberry vodka in the tears as I wiped them off my cheeks. I had to get it together, but I couldn't do it.

"You think we're something that we're not, Julie. You always did. This was so much more to you than it was to me. It's not healthy."

I recalled Sheridan's face, the mixture of emotion that spread out so quietly on her face when he said it. These things never work out.

He was saying it now too. Different words but the same sentence.

"You let yourself make bad choices with me, Julie."

Then why didn't you stop me?

I stood silent, watching him as the tears dried in the corners of my eyes. A smeared tar print of black eyeliner and mascara stained the side of my hand. I didn't want to know how I looked to him now.

Why did he kiss me like he had? Why did he listen to me talk, why did he let me share myself with him? Why did he play me his favorite songs and sit in my car and close the door to my bedroom and tell me "we can if you're sure you want to" and keep pushing us on and on until the moment that we stopped?

Why did you do it if you didn't want to?

I couldn't say it, though.

All I could say was under my breath, too quiet for him to hear.

"What?" he said, which is how I realized that I'd said anything at all.

My eyes burning in the glow of the drive-thru lights, my breath shaky, it was all I could say. "Why didn't you come?"

He didn't know what I was talking about. And I couldn't bear to clarify. So I did what I did in the restaurant, I did what I did from every terrifying moment of my life. I ran.

"Please, don't tell Sheridan," I managed to blubber out as I slammed the door to the Jeep. I didn't turn to see if he acknowledged it.

It hit me on the way home: he never even said that he was sorry.