Finding Hope

Chapter Four

Cassidy St. Claire

I consider what he says. His words seem like they should be twisted, seem like he shouldn't be this bearable. He did, after all, sneek into my house at eleven o'clock in the morning, then sat on my bed and read my books. At the same time, there is a man in my house that I can't stand, along with three kids that make me want to cry. I look at him. I look at his eyes.

Green. A beautiful green, dark and shaded. They're hopeful, but behind that is disappointment. He's expecting disappointment. He's hurt. This beautiful boy, he's hurting. I can't be the cause of that.

I nod my head. "Where will we go?"

He smiles, a genuine smile, and his eyes come alive. "Isn't that the fun part?" He takes my hand. He doesn't hold it like I would expect. It isn't cocky. It isn't like he's leading me to a bed. He's like a little boy at Christmastime. His big hand holding mine, eager and gentle, tugging toward the window, as if he never grew up.

*

"This, Cassidy, is Arsemusstiguff." He says, gesturing to his truck, which is an old, beat up, rusting, Chevrolet.

"Arsemusstiguff?" I ask. "What kind of name is that?"

He throws his hand into his chest, feigning hurt. "It is a very," he pauses, searching his mind for the word he's looking for. I cross my arms and raise my eyebrows. "Sentimental name." He says, patting the truck's door.

"Is that so?" I look the truck up and down. "Sentimental?"

"I have older brothers, you see. Three, actually. They all had it before me. Tucker names it 'Arse', hence the first part of the name. When Gavin got it, he wanted to rename it, but it was a huge fight. So he added his name to the back, 'Mustard'," he smiles, shaking his head.

"Mustard? That's nice." I laugh, and he does, too.

"Yeah, so Alan decided to carry on the tradition of stupid names, and named his part 'Stick'." He chuckles again. "I couldn't be the only one not to carry out the name deal, so I called it 'Guff', which means 'foolish nonsense'. And thus, Arsemusstiguff was born."

I nod, looking at his truck, an amused smile on my face.

"Shall we enter Arsemusstigguff?" He asks, gesturing to the truck.

"We shall," I get into the dusty passenger seat.

He starts the engine, and it sounds sad. The 'put-put-pffft-ch-ch' of it alone makes him smile.

Its bench-seated, and it smells like dust, McDonalds, cologne, and old bologna all at the same time. Its actually kind of comforting.

"The seatbelt," he pauses, reaching across me for it. "It's got a trick to it." He buckles the seatbelt, moving the clasp to the right then to the left again, causing it to secure.

He face is inches from my chest, and he looks up at me, smiling. He's still like a little kid. I look at him, my breaths heavy.

He puts Arsemusstiguff into gear and pulls away from the street, his foot working the clutch as he turns on the radio -probably the nevest thing in the truck - to a country station.

We drive. We drive for hours. Down Highway 37 and past. I don't ask where we're going, I just sing along to Luke Bryan and Miranda Lambert, Winter doing the same. We laugh and we are silent. Comfortably so, not awkward or tense. Just easy and natural.

"You haven't asked where we're going," he breaks the silence, his eyes still glued to the road. I faintly hear a familiar song.

'You write her name on it, spin your tires on it
Build your corn field, whiskey bonfires on it
You bet your life on it'

I reach for the stereo to turn it up, but his hand beats me there. I can feel the bass in my back. It vibrates my teeth. I smile.

"I don't need to know. I'm already in the truck and 120-some-odd miles away from town. Ain't much I can do now, except enjoy it." I say over the music, then sing along.

Winter gently finds my hand and holds it, softly singing the voices. I can't hear him, but I see his mouth moving. I feel him. I feel his voice. I feel how he sings, how his voice sounds. I feel it. I feel him.

*

We're in the car for another hour. We sung and talked and joked, but I've grown bored, so he stops just in time.

"Here we are," he shuts off the engine, then sits back in the seat.

I look at the building in from of me. "Its an abandoned building." I say, my voice monotone. Not disappointed or anything, just stating what was there.

"Yeah," he smiles. "Wanna break in?"

"Break in?" I ask. "Sounds fun." I try to unlatch my seatbelt, but it won't budge. "Uh," I say, fumbling with it. "Winter? A little help?"

He smiles and reaches for the clasp.

Left. Right. Left. Jiggle. Click.

I smile at him. "Thanks." Then I open my door.

He gets out and locks the doors, then looks at me. "Race you there!" He yells, then takes off running.

"Winter!" I yell, then run after him. Soon I am at his heels, laughing uncontrollably.

We get to the building (he won), and I look up at it. "That like, 80 stories up,"

"Thanks, captain." He says, l picking the lock on the door. "Way to be obvious."

I walk in behind him when he opens the door, looking at the run down walls. The ceiling is crumbling, and the windows are broken. The floor has stains and it welting in places.

"Its beautiful, isn't it?" He says, looking up at the ceiling. "The architecture, I mean. But we aren't here for building ideas. Let's go to the roof," he says, smiling.

*

We climb. We climb 80 flights of stairs. We ran most of the way. My legs burn by the twelfth set, so by the time we've reached to top, I want to die.

"That. Was. Awful." I say, panting, my hands on my knees.

"Yeah," he pants back, the same position as I. "We're sleeping up here." He says once he's regained his breath.

When I look up, there are two piles of blankets and pillows set up by a bonfire ring along with a small pile of wood. I see two chairs and a basket.

"Sleeping up here? Its only two o'clock," I say, sitting on the ground, a rock digging into my hind end.

"Yeah," he smiles. "That's why I brought dinner," he pulls out a guitar and a notebook. "And entertainment."

He still looks like a little kid.