Failing Upward

Chapter 29 (part 2): Ziploc Bag

I wasn't in much of a hurry to get home and talk to Uncle Greg, so I took my time driving back. I drove by my old house, which was still intact and untouched by fire. Obviously it never was my house— I could just make out a colorful red and blue swing set over the six-foot privacy fence surrounding the yard. A tricycle was left haphazardly in the driveway, ready to be crushed by the white minivan parked in front of it. The lawn had yellow patches with melted dirty snow in piles along the driveway.

Next, I drove by Anderson's apartment. It looked the same— a familiar old Ford truck was parked in her driveway along with Mary's white Intrepid. The curtains were replaced by shades in the front window.

As for my parents' house— it wasn't there. Nothing remained. A modular home stood in its place, all symmetrical and plastic with pointed corners and neat square juniper shrubs lining the drive.

I hadn't been consciously avoiding finding out what life was like for John here, but I'd skirted around the painful memory of my family. They were still gone, Mom, Dad and Harry. Our family home erased. I lived with my aunt and uncle.

This ride down memory lane made my stomach churn and my throat tighten. Nothing felt real. None of this. What I sought was the familiar; what I found was foreign. For a few fleeting moments at work, I felt myself. Now, it was washed with the uncanny feeling that I didn't belong in my own skin.

I thought about tomorrow night and what I hoped would happen on stage, and I prayed that bit of sand would work.

I found the car driving itself down Sherlock's street. His Cutlass was there, all clean and waxed, not a speck of salt on it, chrome glinting in the setting sun. I smiled and hummed. His car was a polished and shiny extension of his psyche. I drove around the block on autopilot, finding myself back where I came from and romancing thoughts of Sherlock with his hands between my legs with me sprawled out in the comfy white vinyl backseat of his car. I pulled into his driveway. I could have called my turning the steering wheel happenstance; I knew better. I sat in Sean's car for the longest time, swearing under my breath for even being in Sherlock's driveway. I still felt sick to my stomach, but I didn't leave, cursing my weakness. I could blame the pain in the pit of my gut on reliving the past or maybe on skipping lunch or maybe even on those pancakes this morning. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, then decided to punctuate my idiocy with a bit of self-loathing, banging my forehead against the wheel chanting, "stupid, stupid, stupid' " when suddenly the goddamned horn went off. I sat up and fumbled for the keys and put the car in reverse.

I jumped when Sherlock rapped on my window.

"Are you going to get out?" he asked, and I turned my head and looked at him: His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he bounced up and down to keep warm. The blue scarf wrapped around his neck slapped in the wind. "Are you getting out?" he repeated. I could see the breath puff out of his mouth. Those lips. Why did he have to look so damned handsome in that Belstaff?

"Not!" I blurted. "Not! Not getting out!"

My heart hammered clear up to my throat. I ached to feel something real. Sherlock was my touchstone, my center. I knew I had the power to make or break that same heart that was clamoring inside my chest. But I had to do what was best for Sherlock's heart too.

"Get out of the car. Come inside."

I grabbed the handle and started to open the door but my brain reminded my dick what a mistake it might be for me to get out of the car. I had hoped I could back the car out and pretend I hadn't seen him. Now I was screwed. Or maybe he was screwed. Not an unpleasant thought. So I put the car in park and turned it off. I tried to look cool. I slid my body closer to the window, flopped one wrist over the steering wheel while I adjusted the rearview mirror with my other hand, checking myself in it. My unavailing nonchalant I could give a fuck aura wasn't cutting it.