When Time Ran Crooked

8 hours, 59 minutes, and 14 seconds Until

And we were back on the road.

I was able to rent out another car, after making several calls. I drove, while Claude slept shotgun next to me. His breathing was even and heavy, as reassuring and regular as the sound of my heartbeat in my chest. But it was okay because he wasn't touching me anymore.

Goodness, I was such an idiot. Heat rushed to my cheeks remembering the morning, waking up to his arms around my waist and his face pressed into my hair. I was in my underwear and a bra and he wasn't much more dressed than I was. The worst part was how it felt, waking up to realize how close we were: good. It felt so fucking good. And that was dangerous.

So I had detangled myself from him, went to the nearby café to grab some coffee, and called the car rental company. By the time I returned, it was like Claude somehow knew what I was doing because he had packed his stuff and dressed.

Then we were back on the road.

And Claude was back asleep, and had been asleep for hours, before I could say anything to him. Like he was avoiding the conversation we both knew we needed to have. Because . . . It wasn't like we were going to be together. I lived in Chicago and he lived in, and loved, the city I hated most. He was sweet and thoughtful and I was bitter and selfish. Prince Charming wasn't supposed to fall in love with the Wicked Witch. Besides, I wasn't ready to settle down into a relationship. I didn't even know what settling down even meant, and why people did it. Kissing him was the stupidest thing I could have ever done.

"Bees . . ."

I glanced over, quickly, but Claude's eyes were shut. Yet his lips were opened slightly, and I swear I had heard-

"Bees."

Indeed, I heard the velvet rustle of my name from his lips. He was mumbling my name in his sleep. I couldn't handle too much more of this boy.

"Claude," I called out, keeping my eyes locked on the long, straight white road ahead of me. "Claude, wake up."

I had to call his names a few more times, but eventually he stirred awake, blinking wildly and groaning. "Bees? You just . . . Why did you wake me up?"

"We need to talk," I told him, still not daring to look at him. To look into those soft blue eyes and see that expression that would, inevitably, break something I didn't know I had.

"Okay," he said, slowly. "What about?"

I gulped. "Look, the last few days with you have been . . . really great. And you're great with-"

"But?"

"What do you mean, but?" I repeated.

And when he spoke, he sounded deeply bitter. "There's always a but, isn't there?"

I bit my lip. "It's not a but about you. It's just that we are going to reach New York in like two hours and I'm just not ready to play house wi-"

"I never asked you to play house with me," he muttered.

"You might as well have," I snapped back, sick of his tone. "I can see where you though this was going. You asked me questions like you wanted to know me and not the inside of my legs and-"

"So am I supposed to apologize for liking you and treating you like a decent human being?" He demanded.

Claude wasn't getting it. "No-"

"No. Just stop, Bea," he insisted. "You want to break off whatever this thing is that we are doing. I get it. I know, okay? I knew it the second I woke up and you were gone without so much as a note. Because you don't . . . You don't know how to love people, do you?"

My grip on the steering wheel tightened. From the corner of my eye, I saw that my knuckles had been bleached white by something other than the reflection of the snow. But I didn't know what to say because he was probably right: I didn't know how to love people. At least not in the way that they deserved.

"I know you hurt a lot," he murmured, quietly, after some time had passed. "I know you don't talk about whatever it is that makes you so sad, and that's okay, because everyone deserves their privacy. But I was ready to give myself to you. I know you're not perfect, I'm certainly not, but I wanted to experience everything with you. Didn't you want me? Or are you letting your sadness make decisions for you again?"

Each of his words pierced my skin like a perfectly sharpened knife, digging into my skin until it pinched each and every one of my cells and engulfed them the intensity of pain. Of suffering. Of the knowledge that there was a difference between the two and they hurt in different ways. And he didn't know. Of course, Claude Martin didn't know as most people didn't, and shouldn't, but thought they did. And I wasn't about to tell him.

The tears stung as they welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them away. This couldn't be real. None of this could be real with anymore. I gulped, forcing my most casual tone. "Look, Claude, you're great, really-"

"But?"

"But," I added, in confirmation of his earlier words. "I have certain . . . needs in a relationship. Sexual needs. And you and I had some fun fooling around, but I need a real man in bed to-"

In that moment, I wasn't me. I was separated from my body, from my reality, and it felt like I was watching this scene unfold like some kid watching a shitty rom-com at the movie theater. Some kid who booed at the protagonist for hurting the love interest, when we all knew that they were going to get together in the end because that's how movies worked. Everyone gets a Happily Ever After. But that's where movies lie. Because sometimes, the two main characters can't, and shouldn't, stay together. Maybe it's distance or family or differing ideals or fucking fate, but real life is never like the movies. I mean, I thought that was pretty obvious when they casted Zac Efron to play a high schooler.

"But you said . . ." Claude mumbled, bringing me back to the moment. He was at a loss for words. "I'm not . . . man enough? What do I need to do to be a man? Should I ask Julian? Should I ask, I don't know, like fucking Adam Levine?"

"Why Adam Levine?" I asked, drawn back by the randomness.

"I don't know, Bea, I don't know what you want from me," he snapped. "I don't know anything, except that I'm not a man. That everything you said to me about my virginity is a complete and utter lie. That I'm never going to be good enough. I'm . . ."

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I had to do. "Are you done whining now? The gaslight is on and I need you to check the GPS for the closest gas station."

It was one of those moments where time became tangible. Where it filled and engulfed the air with its lingering touch, washing over us until we were drowning in it.

Then, "The next gas station is about ten minutes from here."

And I said, "Thanks."

Then, the silence poured in until neither of us could breath.

*
We pulled into the gas station of that small town exactly when Claude said we would, the damn bastard. As I turned off my engine, I stole a quick glance at the aforementioned guy, who still stared intently out of the front window.

"I'm going to run out now," I told him. He didn't even flinch at sudden sound of my voice. "After I fill up the car, I might run inside and see if I can find myself a Slice. You want anything?"

Nothing. Radio silence.

I frowned. "Claude, you in there? Knock, knock. Earth to Claude Martin? You in there? There's a spectacularly stunning and particularly sexy woman demanding your attention, Claude. Won't you look at her?"

But he still refused to look at me, to utter a single word. But I guessed it didn't really matter what he said anyways.

I sighed and exited the car.

*

As I emerged from the gas station (Splice in hand, of course), I watched our small rental car zoom away right before my eyes. It all happened so fast, but not fast enough that I didn't seen the gleam of ruffled blonde hair behind the wheel. Not so fast that I didn't witness Claude fucking Martin steal my rental car.

I was so surprised, I dropped my Splice.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but are you Bea?" A man asked, appearing before me. He had a plain face, touched with beady brown eyes and a bushy brown beards, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.

I instantly scowled. "How do you know my name?"

The man smiled, apologetically. "That, uh, guy, who just drove by gave me this note for you. Uh, here. And, just so you know . . . he asked for directions to a bar. The poor fella didn't seem right in the head, so I'd be careful if I were you."

He passed me the note, before awkwardly turning around.

Claude's "note" was written on a folded Starbucks napkin. It read:

You said I'm not man enough, but are you man enough to find me? C.M.

I had to admit, he has nice handwriting. Like the letters were straight and narrow, but in a-

Wait. Nope. That's a distraction. What I really needed to do was find Claude Martin. Fuck being man enough to find him. I almost drowned and survived a car crash which left me deserted in a snow bank for sixteen hours. I wasn't a fucking man. I was a woman and I was going to find Claude Martin because I was damn ready to go home.

I was able to find the guy inside the gas station. "Yo, Beard Face, where do you say this bar is?"