Allyson In Between ✔︎

Noah | Deleted Scene 4

|photo by Damir Kopezhanov from Unsplash|

I drive, stupid fast, until I get onto I-95 where the traffic is stop-and-go because of the rain. Now sitting in my car feels like doing nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. Nothing to distract me from the weight in my chest.

Ally doesn't remember anything about Virginia except for my face.

My smiling face at the pool and nothing else.

Dammit, Dodge, why'd you say you'd go back up there? She's going to want details—the whole damned story—and what am I going to do, tell her no?

I crack my window for fresh air but my brother's "breathing technique" isn't working because it's not the same. The only reason I let him teach it to me that summer was so I could jump into a pool that looked like a postage stamp. The asshole who used to carry me around the house by my underwear told me to take a thirty-three foot leap off the highest dive platform. So yeah, I had to accept the challenge because he didn't think I would.

Climbing the ladder wasn't so bad. But from that height, the water looked like it was maybe three feet deep—four at the most. I refused to climb back down but I couldn't take that leap until Michael showed me how he got through it the first time.

When I started learning the dives, he taught me to combine the breathing with visualization: picture the moves I wanted to make on the way down, the position I'd be in when I hit the water. By the end of the summer, I could generate that dive-platform calm any time I needed it, which was every time I thought about what Ally said to me on the phone that day.

Why can't I make it work for me now?

The car in front of me brakes and my wipers slash through red-tinted rain—which seems to be getting heavier. I ease the car to a stop and glance at my phone. Maybe I should call the pro shop. If it's raining this hard at the club, they may not even want me to come in and then I could go the The Y and lift or run. Or something.

I slide my thumb across the lock. There's a message from Ally: Did you text me from the parking lot?

Huh. Busted.

I drop the phone on the seat and mess with the radio but it doesn't stop me from wondering how she knows I was there. The more I try not to think about it... Dammit. I grab the phone and type a quick: Yes. How'd you know?

Her reply comes back—long as shit and full of question marks—but the traffic's starting to move so I dig my ear buds out of the door pocket, plug them into my phone and God help me, I call her. "I can't really text while I'm driving," I say.

"Oh, I... I didn't think about... I don't... I'm sorry. Should I—"

"Ally, it's all right. I can talk. I have my headphones on. Both hands on the wheel."

She's quiet for a long moment and then she says, "When you say wheel, I'm picturing your car's tires but I know that's not right."

"No, I'm talking about the steering wheel. Sorry, that was sort of a joke. But I guess you don't remember Driver's Ed." 

No, dumbass, she doesn't.

"Driver's Education was a class at school," I tell her. "They teach you about driving safety and stuff."

"Oh. I don't drive." 

"Yeah, okay." I guess that makes sense. "How did you know I texted you from the parking lot?" 

"I recognized your car. From that day. And from before that day because I can see the parking lot from the window in my room. And your car...it stands out. Because of the odd-colored door. How many times have you been here?"