Slate Gray

Chapter 22.2: Perrin Slate

Unless I wanna flag down a trucker, my only option has parked himself in the passenger seat, his swaddled form dark against the gas station's lights. From the rhythmic slap of plastic, he appears to have liberated the CD case from the glove box and is no doubt judging every album I own.

But my shambling steps halt when I realize that without my defenses, I have no clue how to play this.

What's the protocol when a hook-up triggers a stabbing? When letting someone in almost leads to their death? And not a pleasant death either. A brutal, chunky, bloody one.

Do I act tough? Tell him to brush it off and get back on the bike?

Do I fuss over him? Reveal that a piece of me actually cares?

Split the difference?

Choking back the mounting acidity, I sift through my piles of liquified masks; there's gotta be a few usable shards left.

It takes some digging but by the time I reach the cockpit, I've amassed enough gluey strips to craft an old faithful: my Mask of Apathy. It's brittle, cracks spiderwebbing the surface as it hardens, but it'll do.

"If you're gonna sit there," I grumble, plopping into the driver's chair. "I'm gonna put you to work."

Now rocking gray sweatpants and one of Dad's band shirts – a black Kansas number stamped with their Point of Know Return album – Terry glances up. "Define 'work'."

The RV roars to life and I remove the banana from my sweatshirt pouch. "Peel this for me?" I waggle it at him. "Please?"

There's a blink-and-you-miss-it dimple sighting before he obeys, shucking the layers to expose the bruised mess beneath. "But only cuz you asked nicely."

I tug at my hood to obscure additional distracting sights, readjust everything since the last driver was a pipsqueak and we're off. The neon glow of the dashboard clock reads 5:26 AM which means we still have at least an hour until sunrise. One more hour until the dawn of a shitty, anxiety-ridden day.

"Need me to feed you too?" Terry asks, holding out my freshly peeled fruit.

"Not if you wanna keep your fingers." I steady the wheel with my knees to snatch it back and the rush of potassium kickstarts my sluggish, fearful brain. Two bites later and words muffled by mastication, I ask, "What's the diagnosis on your stomach?"

"That it might be infected but Ace isn't one-hundred-percent sure. She gave me some antibiotics then said she was gonna 'close her eyes for a sec'." He drops the air quotes to thumb behind us. "She's out, huh?"

"Like a busted bulb."

He snickers and right when I think I've avoided another round of questions, comments and concerns, slips in, "She also told me what went down with your dad... You ok?"

Something in his voice lures me out of my purple cave and I discover he's doing the thing again. The inconvenient, effective thing where he watches me with his whole face cracked open, eyes brimming with sincerity. And the cavalier lie I've queued fizzles on the spot.

"No," I say instead. "No, I'm not."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not even a little."

I tense in case he tries to pry. But his palms raise in affable surrender and he returns to the CD case, the crinkle of each page filling the ensuing silence. And the longer he takes to pick one, the more the dead air grates on my sanity.

Half the reason I own so many damn albums is cuz I can't stand silence. In my experience, silence means lack. A blank, white void of yawning nothingness. I either feed it with my own thoughts, which I hate, or I give it something else to feast upon.