Kiss Kill Vanish (27 page)

“I'm not going to feel better until you find me a semi-clean twenty-four-hour gas station.”

“That's not going to happen, princess.”

“We've got to pass something.”

But he's right. We roll through a handful of sleepy towns, and everything is closed. Rural Vermont, apparently, has a bedtime.

“Pull over,” I mutter when things move from critical to dire.

Marcel slows and veers onto the shoulder. Gravel and snow crunch beneath the tires, and the patch of road we illuminate now is the mottled gray of sludge and ice.

“I don't suppose you have toilet paper.”

He laughs.

“Tissues?”

He rummages around in his jacket pocket and retrieves a couple of receipts. “Enjoy,” he says, holding them out for me to take.

Awesome. I grab them and step out of the car, careful not to slip on the ice.

“Watch out for wolves, princess,” he says.

“Don't call me that.” I give the door a hefty slam. Wolves. Great. I hadn't even thought of wolves. I make my way to the back of the car and survey the inky black forest. I'd have to be crazy to wander out into that. And ultimately, would I rather have my body ripped apart by wild animals or pee uncomfortably close to the car?

I run back up to the driver's side of the car and motion for Marcel to roll down the window. “Don't turn around,” I say.

“What do you take me for? No offense, but watching you pee is not real high on my list of things I'm dying to do.”

He keeps talking, but I'm already running to the back of the car. Crouched with one hand on the bumper, both eyes on the forest, I go.

“Better?” he asks as I climb back in afterward.

“You have no idea.”

I'm buckling my seat belt when a car flies by.

“Too bad that didn't happen thirty seconds ago,” he says.

I shudder. I hadn't even thought about being visible to passing cars.

“So I was looking at the map,” he says, pulling back onto the highway, “and it turns out we're closer to Burlington than I thought we were.”

“How close?”

He grins. “About five minutes.”

Before I can stop myself, I'm punching his shoulder as hard as I can. I've thrown three good ones before I consider the possibility that he actually did misread the map, but I don't want to stop punching. Besides, he deserves it for the speed bump. I throw two more before he grabs my fist midair.

“Okay, that's starting to hurt. And I'm trying to drive here.”

I take a few exaggerated deep breaths. “
Now
I feel better.”

“Great.”

I stare at his hand wrapped around my fist. “I'm done punching you. Let go.”

“I don't know if I can. This isn't the first time you've been unpredictably violent.”

“When you annoy me, I hurt you.” I say. “Seems very predictable to me.”

“I don't think that defense is going to hold up in a court of law when you're being tried for assault and battery. Maybe we could find some anger management course to enroll you in once we get to Miami.”

He loosens his grip, but he doesn't let go. I yank my hand free. He puts his back on the steering wheel, and we both stare straight ahead.
Once we get to Miami.
When we get to Miami, Marcel is going to drop me off at Emilio's apartment, and we won't ever see each other again. He knows that. I know that.

“Or maybe I'll just mention it to Emilio,” he adds. “He has the most to benefit from you getting psychiatric help for that temper.”

“I don't
lose my temper when I'm with Emilio.”

“I bet.”

“I don't. He doesn't intentionally piss me off.”

Marcel smirks.

“What's that look supposed to mean?”

“There was no look.”

“Seriously, what?”

“Nothing. It just doesn't sound like very much fun, being with someone who doesn't rile you up. That's all.”

“We have fun.”

“Okay.”

“And since when are you a relationship expert?” I say.

“Since never. Go to sleep. I might need you to drive later.”

I recline the seat and roll away from him to face the window. It's easier to be sad when nobody can see your face. This bruise inside my chest shouldn't be there—I should be relieved we got past the border. I should be thinking about how many hours I am from having Emilio's arms around me. I close my eyes, but I can't get comfortable. “I need the blanket,” I mumble, and crawl over the seats to find it.

“There's a pillow in the back if you want it. And would you mind bringing the cooler up here?”

I find the pillow and a small cooler beside his duffel bag. It's surprisingly heavy. “What's in here?”

“Soda. You can help yourself.”

“Maybe later.” I bring it up to him.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just tired.” I gesture to the backseat. “I think I'm gonna sleep back there.”

He doesn't argue.

I stretch out on the third row, and even with a seat belt digging into my hip, I'm more comfortable by myself. Marcel's sympathy feels more dangerous than his teasing, probably because it reminds me that I
am
using him. I'm not going to think about it. He offered to do this.

The hope that I might dream of Emilio pulls me under, but I'm too tired to dream about anything.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

L
ight. I can feel it before my eyes are open. It's not the stabbing morning light that cuts through the crack in your blinds and burns a hole in your head, but a gradual lifting of darkness. It's warm and yellow before you even notice it's there.

I don't open my eyes. That would force me to acknowledge a list of ugly realities: where I am, what I'm doing, what a huge mistake it is, etc. But now I've thought too much, and it's all flooding in. I'm going back to Miami. Marcel is taking me there. Emilio doesn't want me there. My father can't know I'm there.

And that's just the surface. The next layer is relearning what still makes me sick, even though I should be used to it by now. My father. Who he is. Emilio. What he does.

I force my eyes open and sit up. It still smells like animals.

“Hey,” Marcel says. “I thought you might be dead.”

I blink and wipe the sleep from my eyes. “How long did I sleep?”

“I don't know. It's ten.”

“In the morning?”

Marcel lifts his eyes from the road, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “I don't know how to answer that.”

“Right. I mean, obviously morning. I can't believe I slept for that long, though.”

“I was sure you'd wake up when I stopped for gas,” he says.

“We stopped? Did you get some food?” I make my way back up to the front, but my seat is now covered in candy wrappers.

“Yeah, but I ate it all trying to stay awake. I think we're about a half hour from Lancaster. We can stop there.”

I stuff the wrappers into a plastic bag, toss it on the floor, and sit down. “You look exhausted.”

“This is what five energy drinks in one night looks like.”

“Why didn't you just pull over and sleep?”

“I thought you wanted to get there as soon as possible.”

“I do, but I don't want you to kill yourself.”

Kill yourself.
I cringe, but Marcel pretends he didn't hear it. “Can you drive after we stop for food?”

“Sure.” I buckle my seat belt and pull my hair up into a ponytail. My teeth feel gritty, and I probably look like I've been sleeping on my face for the last eight hours, but that hopeless ache is gone. We could be in Miami by tomorrow.

“I'm glad you're up,” he says. “I was starting to go crazy. I even listened to some self-help audiobook I found in the glove box. I'm pretty sure my mom put it there for Lucien. She's a big fan of motivation in a can.”

“Yeah, how was it?”

“I'm now ready to embrace my authentic self and nurture my dreams.”

“Beautiful.”

Snow stretches to the horizon in every direction except for the narrow gray ribbon of road carved into it. The sky is bluer than Marcel's pool. Wherever Emilio and I end up going, I want the sky to be blue like that.

“Question,” Marcel says, interrupting my thoughts. “Emilio doesn't know you're coming.”

“That's not a question.”

“Thanks, I'm getting there. Why don't you call him and tell him? I mean, he'll be happy to see you, right? What's with the secrecy?”

The good thing about a sky that blue is that it pulls your eyes up from dreariness. It makes you forget the less beautiful parts of whatever is below.

“Valentina?”

“He told me not to come.”

“What?”

I clear my throat. “He told me not to come. He said it isn't safe.”

“Then why are—”

“Because I can help him, and I'm tired of waiting to be rescued like some damsel in distress. And I think there's something going on that he's not telling me.”

He gives me a sideways glance.

“What?”

“Nothing. That wouldn't surprise me.”

“Don't lecture me. You only know the bad things about him, but he has to pretend to be that person. You don't know who he really is.”

“But you do.”

I ignore the skepticism in his voice. “Yes.”

Marcel doesn't say anything else.

We stop at an IHOP for breakfast, and I use the facilities to brush my teeth and change my clothes. After we've stuffed ourselves with banana waffles (me) and chocolate chip pancakes (him), we swing by a gas station to top off the tank.

“Are you sure you don't mind driving?” Marcel asks as I adjust my seat and mirrors. He's already reclined the passenger seat, folded the pillow beneath his head, and cocooned himself in the blanket.

“Of course. I just stay on I-81?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Preferably going south.”

“Right.”

His eyes are shut by the time I've pulled out of the gas station, and he's snoring lightly after two minutes.

Driving isn't bad, at least not for the first few hours. Bald, snow-patched hills roll by, and it's easy to get lost in the monotony, let my best memories take over. Like that windy day in Rome last fall when my sisters went boot shopping and Papi took me with him to galleries. He critiqued and browsed and bought, asking me,
And what do you think of this one?
over and over as we wandered past paintings. I'd been tagging along all my life, but for some reason I was suddenly old enough for my opinion to mean something.

In between stops, we had lunch at a restaurant with a patio. Canary-colored tablecloths flapped in the wind like wings, anchored by vases of scarlet geraniums. Papi ordered me lobster mushroom ravioli that tasted earthy and salty. We dipped chunks of bread in a swirl of tangy balsamic and oil, and chewed, and talked about the paintings we still had to see.

He talked like he loved the art. I thought he did.

Strange. At some point his truths became his lies, but I can't see the line separating them. And do his admirable qualities cancel out any of his sins? I don't think so. Even if a person can be divided up like that—into truths and deceptions, good deeds and bad ones—and they cancel each other out like pluses and minuses in a gigantic life equation, he'd still never make it to zero. I don't even know a fraction of what he's done, but I know enough to see his love for art can't redeem him. His love for me can't do that either.

This is the problem. I let my thoughts take the good memories and turn them bad. All of them.

Marcel grunts and rolls over so he's facing me. Sleep makes his face serene.

Hating him seems like a long time ago. I don't feel pity anymore either. Something about him has changed, and he's not so pitiable now. Thinking about his life makes me sad, but that's different.

I turn on the radio. Keeping it soft so it won't wake Marcel, I cycle through the stations. But even when I land on a familiar song, the lyrics slide off me and the music is annoying, so I turn it off and start listening to the first CD of
Finding Your Authentic Self
. Within five minutes my authentic self is severely annoyed by the patronizing voice and message, but I can't bring myself to turn it off. It's hypnotic. I hate it, but it's strangely soothing too. And there's something appealing about the idea that I could listen to this woman tell me all the keys to happiness and then I'd have it.

When the first CD ends, the second begins automatically, and I don't stop it. What else have I got to do?

Five discs later my brain is mush and the only thing my authentic self is telling me is that I have to use the bathroom.

Marcel lifts his head as the car slows on the exit ramp. “You didn't kill us,” he says, and yawns. “Good job.”

“You were worried?”

“Nah. You don't seem like the bad-driver type.”

“As if you can tell.”

“With girls? Yeah, I can.”

“This oughta be good.” I turn into a kitschy Greek restaurant, complete with columns and chipped statues lining the path from the nearly full parking lot.

“The bad drivers are spazzes. The good drivers are sexy.”

I roll my eyes. “That's one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. Is Greek okay?”

“Yeah. And you should be flattered.”

“I'm too disturbed to be flattered.”

He gets out of the car. “You know it's true.”

I get out of the car too. My legs feel weak, and I'm suddenly starving. “And there are only two types of girls?”

“Fundamentally, yeah.”