Meant To Be

Chapter seventeen

"Take the pickup!"

Zac lengthened his stride, the heel of his boots tramping on the tattery strings hanging from the hem of his jeans. Helen stood on the porch; eyebrows clutched with worry, her heart in his hands. "Please be to God," she said, praying he wouldn't be hit by a vehicle along the way.

There wasn't a wave of wind in the air. The sun hitting its stride. Zac's forehead glossed with sweat. He paced along the side of the road, a foot below the tarmac where grass shrivelled and paled. The traffic mimicked droplets from a turned off tap and Zac cursed every person perched behind the wheel like it would never happen to them.

The suburb of Bell Buckle was no more than a handful of houses. They all looked the same, square, with two windows on either side of the front door, green gardens decorated with fancy summer furniture – the old washed with the new. Zac pushed saliva down his throat, feeling it the whole way, bypassing his rattling heart. He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the way he came. He kept doing it every few seconds. There were more vehicles on the road now, coming and going. Zac still took time to hate whoever had their foot on the gas.

Children screamed. Zac jerked. Half a dozen or more in bright party hats escaped from the house. Zac lowered the peak of his cowboy hat as he walked by. The closeness of small humans was like a warmup to the bodies clotting in the town centre, soaking up the early hours of the weekend, greedy to get as much from it as they could. Unlike Bell Buckle, Zac's days had no significant difference.

Zac marched up and down every isle cursing Helen and her need to have a spare for a spare. Reaching the far end of the store next to the bleeping tills with queues that tailed back, Zac stalled, looking around like a lost child. Eyes clung to him. His name thrust in whispers. Sweat grew thicker on his face. He marched back to the first isle and started all over again.

Zac joined the queue nursing seven lightbulbs in his arms. The fan static above his head. His feet shuffled, eyes sitting above the woman's red hair in front. Too many people were pivoting around him. Zac kept his stare on the clock on the wall. The big hand moving as slow as he was.

"Hi there," said the woman behind the till in a deep twangy accent.

"Hello." Zac set the seven light bulbs on the belt one by one in a neat line. The till bleeped as she put the first one through, her long, pink nails digging into the cardboard box. Zac heard his name again and tilted away from the sound. A dab on the arm, playful but wanting forced him to look. He found a bald man with California sun leathered on his skin, stationed a few feet away at the till on his left. Zac returned to his original stance cutting him off again. "Can I have a bag," he asked. The cashier put her hand under the counter and pulled out brown paper, shaking it out.

"Man, its me. Dave?"

Zac turned again, his face pissed off and agitated. Dave said thank you as the teenage cashier gave him back his credit card. He slipped it into his Louis Vuitton wallet, moving to the end of Zac's till with his groceries. His goofy grin kicked Zac's memories into line. He could see Dave now with a mullet and only one chin.

"How ya'll doing Dave," said Zac in a dry tone.

"I'm doing really good thanks. Just back visiting my folks for a few days." Zac stared at Dave, making his expression weigh with uncertainty. Like he'd forgotten something at home.

"$18 please sir," said the cashier.

Zac took a folded twenty dollar note out of his jeans.

"I feel like I'm seeing everyone today." Dave ginned sheepishly. "I met Luna Wayfair this morning, Casey Crawford too. Boy has she got thin. I haven't seen her since high school." He paused, smirking, thinking it over. "I'm guessing her and that prick from the football team never made it then?"

The cashier handed Zac his change. His lack of response painted Dave's expression with doubt for a second time. He thought the last memory they had together was as safe as houses; Zac waking up in the bathtub after Suzy Keogh's house party, him in the shower, the walk home as the first springs of daylight ripped up the night sky, their sixteen-year-old selves moaning over how complicated girls where.

Zac slipped the coins into his pocket. His hand tight against the hem. "It's about the only thing you and Denis Johnson have in common." Dave's smile took time to grow, uncertain at first. But when the corners widened, laughter surfed from the back of his throat.

"So how is everybody?" He asked.

Dena's fresh floral perfume blocked Zac's sinuses like poison. He grabbed the brown shopping bag, a tremble in his hand as he folded down the top three times and clamped it in his fist. "Good. Everyone's good," he said, leaving Dave to exchange glances with the cashier that told her Zac was mad.

Outside the footpath was flooded. Bright colours consumed faces. Zac pushed his way through. Tuts bouncing off his back. He stepped into a quiet side street built up with mahogany bricks and cramped up against the wall, gasping for air.