The Leaving Season (13 page)

A bemused look crossed Lee's face. “Me, but not Nate? Why?”

“It's permanent, Lee. A tattoo is forever.”

“Not always, but okay. So what?”

“So what if you change your mind?”

Lee drummed his fingers against his chin in thought. “So . . . ?”

“So? So!” I let my hands drop into my lap as dramatically as I could.

Lee turned to face me, closing the distance between us to just a foot or so. “Who cares if you change your mind? The way I see it, say yes now and deal with the shit later.”
He grinned as he shoved the key into the ignition and then stopped. He took my hand and held it over the key. Our fingers trembled with excitement. “Ready? One, two—”

“Three!” I said. We both held our breath as the key clicked past start, paused, and then the engine roared to life! The smile on Lee's face was as bright as I'd ever seen it. It lit up the dark circles under his eyes and erased the shadows on his cheeks and jaw. He nodded, a goofy grin on his face like a little kid's. “It works!”

“Whoo-hoo!” I shouted. I clapped my hands. Silly, but I couldn't help it! The day's work paid off—the Mustang was running.

Suddenly I felt Lee's arms around me, hugging me close. The scent of grease and dried sweat and Red Bull clung to him, clung to me, as the skin on our necks met and our cheeks touched. I felt his palm against my back. My own hands had wandered to the back of his neck and were clasped there, holding him.

I froze in place, not wanting to move, not trusting myself to stay still.
This is not a hug,
I told myself,
not a real hug.
This was a friendly, congratulatory embrace.

It was Lee who cut it short, who pulled back and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He said nothing, but I saw his lips twitch, as they had before. He glanced at me briefly. “Ready?”

I nodded, willing my heartbeat to slow, forcing my brain to focus. It was sleep deprivation and Red Bull, I told myself.
Oh, wait, that's him, not me. What's my excuse?

Lee shifted the car into reverse and eased it out of the garage. The thrill of the Mustang actually moving quickly overshadowed any weirdness. This was all about the car and nothing more.

We were halfway down the long driveway, headed toward the main road, when Lee stopped the car and let it idle in neutral. He got out, walked over to the passenger side, and opened my door. “Move over, you're driving,” he said. He tried to smoosh me over with both hands.

“What? I can't!” It was a stick shift, and I had only driven an automatic. I'd never learned a manual transmission.

“You and your four-letter words,” he said. “‘Won't.' ‘Can't.' Go on. Or I'll sit on top of you.”

I crawled behind the wheel and stared down at the floor, a stranger in a very strange land. Brake, accelerator . . . and clutch? What on earth was I supposed to do with that? I turned to Lee helplessly. “I . . . I . . .”

“Just try,” he said. “What's the worst that could happen?”

“I drive the car into a tree and we die.”

He threw back his head, laughing. “Oh my god, no. You'll only stall.”

“Oh.” I cocked my head to one side. “You're sure?”

He wobbled a hand in the air. “Fifty percent. We'll know for sure in a minute.”

I stared at the gearshift. I didn't even know where to begin.

“The clutch,” Lee said helpfully. “Put your foot down on that—no, your left foot.”

“My left . . . ? But I do everything with my right.”

“The clutch is with your left. Your right foot is on the brake. So do that. Like, now.” He was so patient, so encouraging. Maybe I could do this.

Left on clutch, right on brake. “Okay.” I was holding on to the steering wheel for dear life. I was pretty sure my knees were locked too.

“Now put your right hand on the gearshift. You're gonna slide it into first gear. Then while you let your foot up off the clutch, take your right foot off the brake and put it on the gas.”

“Wait, wait, wait! That's too many things!” My hands felt clammy and wet on the wheel and my feet were jammed so hard against the pedals that I thought I'd actually put them through the floorboard.

“You can do this,” Lee said calmly. “You're smart—”

“Not like this.”

“—and I'm right here.”

I felt my heart thumping in my chest.
Oh god, oh god, oh god . . .
I took a breath and did what Lee said: clutch, shift, gas . . . the car lurched forward and died. I yelped. “Oh no! I broke it!”

Lee chuckled. “Like I said, you only stalled. Try it again. Come on, you can do it.”

Fine, all right.
I braced myself for a second go at it.
Clutch, shift, gas. Stall.

And again. Clutch, shift, gas. Stall.

“Damn it!” I shouted at the windshield. “Why isn't this working?”

Lee tried not to laugh, but I could see the merry twinkling in his eyes.

“You can just stop that right now,” I told him.

“I will. It's just . . .”

“What?”

“It's funny to see you get upset.”

“Funny?” I felt myself start to fume. “You like watching me fail?”

“It's a
car
,” he drawled. “Who
cares
?”

“Yes, but . . .”
But I want to be good at it.
I crossed my arms and leaned back in the driver's seat, pouting. “Forget it. You drive.”

Lee's eyes widened. “That's it? Damn, you give up easily.”

“I told you—”

“Yeah, you told me.” He shook his head. “Try it again. Just once more. For me?” He batted his lashes coquettishly.

“Ugh, fine. Once more.” I started the car. Clutch. Shift. Gas.

And stall with the force of a hundred ponies.

“Damn it!” I screamed. “I am never doing this again. Ever!”

Lee said nothing but got out and walked around the back of the car. I scooted across the seat, settling into the warmth
he left behind.
Let him drive this thing,
I thought. After all, it was his now.

I heard the trunk open and Lee returned to the front seat with a small cooler. He opened the lid and pulled out a beer. “Do you always carry a cooler of alcohol in your trunk?”

Lee uncapped the bottle with an opener on his key chain and handed it to me. “Normally I drive a Vespa, so no, I don't. But I had a feeling I'd get this thing rolling and I knew I'd want to celebrate.”

“With me?”

“Actually,” he said with a snort, “I didn't plan on sharing.” He pulled out another beer and aimed the neck at me. “So you better not drink all of them.”

I held the bottle up to the waning sunlight. “You know, I drink maybe once a year, if that.”

“Bullshit. I saw you at that party. You had a beer in your hand.”

“I didn't drink it, Sherlock.”

He sighed. “Great. These are good beers and I just wasted one on you. At least take a sip and toast the car, huh? Can you do that?” He tapped the neck of his beer to mine. “To our awesome mechanical skills.”

I raised the bottle to my lips, bracing myself for a bitter brew. But it wasn't the usual flat, watery stuff from a party keg. It was nutty-flavored and a little sweet and the bubbles tickled the roof of my mouth and tongue.

I took three more swallows before I paused for a breath,
holding the chilled bottle against my chest. “Um, that's pretty good.”

“Yeah, this is my mom's favorite too. When she's around.”

Mom.
Lee never spoke about her.

“Oh?” I said as neutrally as possible.

He tipped his head back and drank half the bottle in one long gulp. “I'll bet you never had a mom who was single
and
married, huh?”

“I, um . . . No. My mom is just married. You know, to my dad.” I sipped some more of my beer, hoping I could encourage him to keep talking. If he wanted to.

“You see, Sherry Ryan is married to my dad, and Sherry Livingston is not married to my dad. They look like the same woman, but only from the outside.” Lee finished the rest of his beer and slowly peeled the label off the bottle. “When my dad's in town, I get to see Sherry Ryan, and when he's not, Sherry Livingston sneaks in.”

“Do you mean—”

“She fucks around when he's away. Yeah.” He took another swallow. The bluntness of his words took my breath away. Luckily, Lee didn't mind the silence.

“Fortunately for Sherry Livingston, my dad would rather not be here anyway, so she pretty much gets the run of the house.”

His laugh was short, more like a gruff exhale. I didn't know what to say, so I kept quiet and motionless. A moment
later he reached into the cooler for a second beer and a frown creased his face. “You need another.”

“Oh no, I'm good. See?” I sloshed the beer in my bottle from side to side to prove it wasn't empty, but when I looked, only a couple of swallows remained. “How did that happen?”

“I told you. My mom knows her beer. Drink up.” He placed a finger at the bottom of my bottle and tilted the mouth of it toward me.

I swallowed, thinking, thinking. “What about your father?” I asked when I'd finished. “Doesn't he care that your mom is sleeping around?”

“Who said my mom is sleeping around?” Lee snapped. “Did I say that? No. I said
Sherry Livingston
is sleeping around. That's not my mom.” He gulped down some more beer and finished with an
ahh
.

“Okay.” Lee was so very close to revealing more of himself, but he'd stopped just short of too much.

I reached into the cooler and took out another beer. Lee silently handed me the opener, and I uncapped the bottle like a pro. I held it up to him, and he allowed a hint of a smile as he clinked ceremoniously. We sipped at the same time. I tried to match him, swallow for swallow, but had to stop before I choked—I was still a lightweight when it came to alcohol.

“We need to name her,” Lee said, patting the seat. “What do ya think?”

“Name . . . the car?” My head was beginning to swim. All this beer on a nearly empty stomach was not smart, but I wanted to be in the moment. I wanted to be spontaneous and fun.

“Yeah, what should her name be?” Lee ran a hand lovingly along the steering wheel and gearbox.

“Christine?” I blurted out and then started laughing like a fiend.

Lee's mouth opened in shock. “Meredith, do you think our car is evil?”

Our car?

“Maybe. She didn't let me drive her, so . . .”

His laughter filled the car. “You're blaming your crappy driving skills on Christine?”

“So we've named her, then?”

“Well . . . Christine wasn't a Mustang, you know.”

“If Stephen King were younger when he wrote the book, maybe it would have been.”

Lee looked amazed. “You are so wise, Meredith Daniels.”

My head lolled on my neck as I turned to him. The second beer was definitely taking effect. “I like that you call me by my whole name,” I said.

“You do?” He stared, examining me. “Why?”

“Because . . . it's my name.” I laughed. I wrinkled my nose. “I don't like Middie. Or
Yoko
.” I tried to hold his gaze, but my eyes were having trouble focusing. “It makes me feel bad when you say that.” I leaned my head against
the cushioned rest and kicked off my boots before pulling my knees up and placing my feet on the dash. “You think Christine minds?”

“Nah. Christine's cool.”

I drank some more of the beer, taking tiny little sips instead of big gulps. I knew I was getting drunk, could feel my head getting lighter, could hear my voice slur, but I didn't want to stop. I didn't want to plan what was going to happen. I didn't want to worry about the future.

Say yes now and deal with shit later.

“Am I being spontaneous and fun?”

“A little bit.”

I slapped a weak hand at his chest. “Just a little? I'm drinking beer in an evil car. What more can I do?”

“You could . . . get a tattoo.”

“Oh, no way! No, no, no.” I shook my head from side to side and stamped my bare feet on the glove compartment in front of me. “Think of something else.”

“Hmmm . . . nope, there is nothing else.”

“Well, I am not getting
inked
,” I declared. My voice was loud, even to my ears. I was definitely buzzed, if not actually drunk. I needed to breathe some fresh air, but the window was closed. “Can you roll down the window?”

“It's not electric,” Lee said.

“Oh.” I stared at the old-fashioned handle, unable to think straight, willing it to move on its own.

“Here, I got it,” Lee said, reaching across me to roll it
down. As he leaned over me, I felt an overwhelming urge to sniff at him, to inhale him, to suck up his scent, his hair, his skin—to exist in the moment, this moment.

But a small part of me worried that I wouldn't stop there, and that would be wrong—for me, for Lee, for Liza.

For Nate.

I pressed my palms against the seat and gripped the leather tightly, holding my breath, holding every nerve still until I felt a rush of fresh air against my face and Lee returned to his own side.

I rested my chin against the open window like a dog. The breeze lifted my hair away from my face, and I closed my eyes to it. “I guess I can't be spontaneous,” I said. “I'm not what you want me to be.”

I heard Lee's voice behind me. It sounded so very far away. “I don't want you to be anything. I just want you to be whoever you are, Meredith.”

I smiled. “Your girlfriend is very lucky,” I said. “Do you love her?”

“I do love her.”

“Is she okay with you hanging out with me?”

Lee laughed softly. “She's cool with it.”

“I like her. She's nice. But she shouldn't smoke.” I clucked my tongue, or at least I thought I did. It stuck there for a moment, as if all my saliva had dried up. I reached for the beer and took another sip to unstick my tongue.