Some caught a freight, some caught a plane
Find the sunshine leave the rain
They said this town will waste your time
Guess they're right—it's wasting mine
Jim, I really, really need you to call me.
See, Simon says—heh, Simon says, get it? I know, old joke, sorry—Simon says I can't leave without telling you I'm going. He's called me selfish, stupid, sorry-assed and stubborn. I think he wanted to call me a coward but it didn't fit in with the whole "s" thing he had going on.
Don't worry about anything. I've cancelled the paper and made a big payment on the electric bill, so everything will keep running until you can get back. Oh, and I went ahead and forwarded your mail since you won't be getting a package from me once a week.
Let's see, what else—oh, I gave away all the plants, because there won't be anyone around to water them. Same with a lot of the stuff in the pantry, like the spices you always complained about but yet somehow managed to chow down the stew I put them in. Funny how that happened.
Speaking of that—I'm sending Maddy a copy of the eggplant recipe, the one you mentioned actually having a yen for when you called in on Monday. I came across it when I was boxing up my papers for storage.
I'm hoping once I get down there, I can catch up on some sleep. Haven't been getting much lately, so that's why I'm leaving a couple of days early. You know, get situated, check the lay of the land, find a place to bunk and then not move for about forty-eight hours. That's the plan, anyway.
You know, it's true—staring at the phone doesn't seem to be making it ring. Think I'll bring it out here to the balcony with me so I can answer it that much faster when you call. Better be soon, man, because the taxi's gonna be here in a little while and Greyhound waits for no one.
Ok, phone line is working, so you obviously haven't received my message, because I know you'll call me once you do. You always call me back. Last time—when was that, Sunday night? You even said you missed me. I suppose you do, but not like I miss you, I guess.
Maddy's still working you hard, I bet. Glad things are working out for you two and Will. He sounds like a great kid, now that he has his act together. I always thought you'd make a great dad, you know?
Whoa, okay. Sun in my eyes. Made 'em water. Hate that.
Now, I know I'll tell you all this when you call, but to keep it straight in my head, I'm gonna go over it again.
My notes and the dissertation are with Simon. Yeah, I know what you're gonna say. When I dropped the stuff off last night he asked me if I'd told you and when I said no, that's when our Captain reamed me a new one. He'll keep it all for you or send it to you, whichever you prefer. He also has the number of my friend in Taos if anyone needs to get ahold of me. The cell is long gone but I'll keep Maddy's phone number—maybe we can talk when I'm in town.
Damn, it's cold out here. But it feels good, in a weird way. Maybe because I'll be toasty by this time on Friday, I'm getting kinda sentimental already about losing the moss between my toes. Bet that would make you laugh, hunh?
Funny—know what I keep remembering? Your hands. Right before you left, we'd gone to the game and miracle of miracles, it'd been sunny. You got some color in your face, except in the corners of your eyes, your laugh lines, which always stay pale. I lo—think it's cool the way I can still see those lines when you're all serious.
But your hands had turned this kind of golden color and when you unlocked the door on the Ford for me, our fingers brushed as I reached for the handle and yours were so warm. I remember thinking—
Actually, I'm thinking I better start locking up. The taxi will be downstairs in a few minutes.
All right. All done. I tore down my room over the weekend and everything's washed. No dishes out. No food in the fridge. I hope you don't mind—hell, I know you won't mind, but I'm keeping my key.
As far as what happened—don't worry about that, either. I know you regret it, but I can't undo it any more than you can. The difference is that I want to do it again and you don't. Believe me, if I'd known that it would cost me everything I love, I never would have kissed you back.
Phone is back in its cradle. Guess I'm gonna miss your call after all.
Hope I can catch some Zs on the bus.
Okay.
I am a tolerant, live and let live kinda guy, but swear to God, that kid kicks my seat one more time and I'm stuffing him in the overhead bin. I could move but the only empty seats are one next to the guy who smells like a flea collar and one next to the guy who was just a little too friendly at the last stop—and I really wish he'd quit smiling at me.
No, I'll stay here next to the nice lady who frowns at me when I turn my Discman up too loud.
I don't remember these seats being so uncomfortable before. Buses are, like, the greatest thing, or so I used to think. Seeing the countryside, having exactly 23 minutes to explore some pissant little town in the middle of nowhere—it used to be such an adventure. But we're on I-5 until Sacramento, it's 3:30 a.m. and we're somewhere in between Roseburg and Grant's Pass and the next stop will barely be long enough for a pit stop. I think I'll hold it until the McDonald's in Ashland—Smiling Guy is just making me too nervous to try and sneak into the bathroom at the back of the bus.
Man, I just knew I'd end up in a draft. This old corduroy jacket sure has seen a lot of use but right now, it's making a great blanket.
Whoa—what is that smell? Eau de dead iguana?
I should call Jim. I should've tried calling him long before I left Cascade. I can't call him now, in the middle of the night.
God, I really can't, can I—not anymore. There once was a time—but like I said, not anymore.
So Jim, I know you'll miss me eventually, right? Like when you have good news to share with your best friend and you call him because you're happy? I know, you're probably too busy to think about stuff like that right now, with this new life you've got going—
No. Not going there.
You really sounded good the last time we talked. You realize, it was that whole "I've got a surprise for you" thing that precipitated my abrupt career change. That and your request to send you your financial statements. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out. And you got Will to go back to school—that's huge. Bet he looks up to you like nobody's business; you have that effect on people, even though you act all tough and stoic most of the time. I know you better than that.
And Maddy—wow, she sounds great. Smart, funny, really down to earth and has you totally pegged. I'd love to get to know her—if her mere existence didn't rip my heart out every time I thought about her.
And you—you! You deny everything, you sly dog. Just helping her out, Sandburg. Doing it for old times' sake. I owe her.
Yeah, that's great, but what about what you owe me?
Not gonna do this, not gonna do—oh, hell, who am I kidding.
Of course I'm gonna do this. It's not like I'm getting any sleep here or anything.
Three months. We had three months together as partners. Three wonderful, harrowing months of learning and growing professionally and personally. God, I felt like some—some light-starved plant that finally got put in the window sill.
You were that light, Jim.
Especially after that night. You know the one. I'm still trying to figure out what exactly went down, you know? Sure, we had that whole adrenaline thing going on but that wasn't all it was. I guess we should have talked about it, because less than two days afterwards, the call came and this old plant went back in the corner to gather dust.
So, Mr. Sandburg, apparently midnight bus rides make you unbearably maudlin. Let's change the subject, shall we?
I'm excited about this new phase in my life. Strictly research and my name won't be attached to a thing. I'll be riding the pine for the most part, but I can do data entry as well if not better than the next grad student—and I'll even do it cheaper. Throw in room and board and I'm you're man.
God, was Simon pissed off or what when I quit? Damn, he took it so personally, too. Thanks a lot, Jim—he was already angry with you for taking a leave of absence, so when I gave him my resignation—oh man, you should've seen the fireworks.
The thing is, I was totally prepared for that. What I wasn't ready for was the compassion in his eyes after he'd calmed down. That—bothered me. I mean, we don't need his pity, right? You've got this new life and I'm heading to mine and we're all still friends.
But dropping off my stuff last night—that was tough. He was real quiet, up until he asked what you thought about me leaving. Then it was like—bam!—Mount St. Helen's all over again. Remember how we used to rate the veins on his forehead when he was all worked up? We're talking a 9.5, easy.
God, I wish I could sleep. I'm so tired.
Food would be good but I sure haven't been hungry. I've discovered it really sucks, cooking for one. I used to do it all the time, too, but now it's just no fun. There's some fruit and nuts in my pack but with that smell—oh, I don't think so.
Not that I blame you. Well, not much, anyway. You did what you thought was the right thing to do; your honor is one of the most attractive things about you. I caught on to that right away, did you know that? Oh yeah—hey, when I called you Joe Friday, it was a compliment!
Sort of.
Can I just say here that the timing was really, really lousy? I know I should've gotten a clue when you took off so quickly, but I held on to the hope that it really was someone in need you were running to, instead of me you were running away from.
But, c'mon, Jim—three months? That's a long time, but it did have it's attractions. Okay, maybe only one—you were faithful about calling me every Sunday and I loved it because we'd talked for hours, like we never really did at home. It's like we didn't take each other for granted anymore—our phone time became special. Unfortunately, we never talked about that night, so it was like it never happened. When you requested an extension of your leave, I finally got the message that you wish that it never had.
You go right on wishing that, Jim. I'll never forget it. But since you're making new memories with Maddy, I guess I'd better—what the hell?
Great. We're slowing down. Now what?
Flashing blue lights. Ok, that is never a good sign—I should know. Everyone's craning their neck backwards or crowding into the aisle to see where the lights are coming from, so of course I can't see a thing. No sirens, though.
Whatever. Maybe we have to take a detour or something—or something big is coming up behind us and we need to get out of the way. As long as we're stopping, think I'll find that bag of banana chips in my backpack.
Man, it's a tight fit down here. Just goes to show you the difference between an eleven year old and a grown man—a guy'd have to be double-jointed to maneuver down here. Wait—there they are, I can feel them now. If I just turn my head to the right—
Uh, oh. Nicely polished black boots. Khaki pants with a crease so sharp you could slice bread with it. Up, up—oh, hello there, officer.
"Detective Blair Sandburg?" she asks, quite kindly, to my surprise. I hesitate before nodding because that whole detective thing is over.
She steps back and gestures smartly toward the front of the bus. "Step outside, please?"
My mind goes blank—then kicks in with all kind of scenarios, none of them good. She referred to me as 'detective', so the first thing I think of is that something's happened at work. Something bad.
I stand up slowly, my eyes locked on hers. The bus is completely silent as everyone stares at us.
"What's this all about, uh," I glance at her shiny nameplate, "Officer Perelli."
"Outside, sir."
I nod and swallow, reaching for the straps of my backpack.
"I'll get that for you." She places a hand lightly on my shoulder, steering me forward. Tossing my jacket over my arm, I happen to glance at Smiling Man and now he's outright grinning at me, showing a respectable amount of gold on his front teeth. In back of me, the whispering starts like a wave, taking me forward on its surge until I reach the steps leading down to the door.
Office Perelli is right behind me as I jump off the last step onto the dirt shoulder. There's a State patrol car behind the bus, blue and red lights still strobing away and the headlights on, blinding me if I look in that direction. The bus driver has already opened the luggage bin and is neatly lining up the suitcases on the dirt so he can dig for my duffel bag. I spot it smashed up against the side and point it out.
Thump! It lands at my feet in a cloud of dust that I wave away, turning to the Statie as I rest my fists on my hips. The luggage is being restowed at a miraculous rate—this driver really wants to make his schedule.
"Okay," I begin calmly, although I feel anything but. "Now can you tell me what all this is about?"
Officer Perelli is standing there, my backpack dangling from her hand and looking quite amused. The luggage door is slammed shut and the driver hurries back to his post and I realize I'm about to be stranded on the side of the road with this nice officer and my heart rate, already a notch above normal, climbs just a tad higher.
Perelli knuckles her hat back off her forehead.
"Oregon State Patrol was asked to detain you until you could be picked up, Detective."
The bus roars off the shoulder and onto the road, spitting gravel over my shoes.
"Picked up? Who's picking me up? Why?" I shiver a little, but I don't want to put on my jacket. Next to Officer Perelli's spiffiness, I'd look pretty sad. Anyway, it's not all that cold—just a dry, mournful wind blowing through the Siskiyous, tugging at my clothes and making the trees sigh.
Instead of answering, Perelli points over my shoulder. I turn to see a large form silhouetted by the headlights.
I know this form.
"Jim?" I say on a gasp. Even as I say it, I don't believe it. Jim is on a small farm near Yakima. Jim has made a new life. Jim doesn't know I'm gone. Jim doesn't—
"Sandburg."
He walks toward me, his features coming into focus the farther he moves away from the light. He's looking right at me, a little smile on his face, but he motions to Perelli. My backpack goes flying past me and he catches it neatly by the straps.
"Grab your gear. Let's go."
I turn to Officer Perelli, thinking I should thank her for something but I can't figure out what. She still has that amused expression going on and before I can say something, she touches the tip of her hat with two fingers. I give her a nod and pick up the duffel bag to hurry after an already retreating Jim. He walks right past the patrol car and once I'm out of the headlights, I see the Ford parked behind it.
After tossing the duffel into the bed of the truck next to Jim's flight bag, I climb in next to him. He has the engine running and my backpack is sitting on the floorboard near the gearshift, so I drape my jacket over it.
This is very weird, Jim. You've said six words to me and now you're watching Perelli pull away, leaving us behind on a deserted stretch of highway in the middle of the night. However, push all that aside and I am so damn glad to see you, I could just—well, never mind, but I really could. But I won't, because that's what drove you away from me in the first place.
The night falls quiet around us, nothing but the sound of the engine. I clear my throat and ask the question that I most dread to ask.
"Okay. Go ahead. Tell me—tell me who's dead."
Jim's head swivels around in surprise. I can't see his face and that's a good thing, I think.
"No one's dead, Chief. Everyone's fine." His voice is soft, even comforting, and I let out heavy sigh of relief. Thank God. Then I nod like I understand, but in reality I'm clueless, so I make a nondescript noise and wave my hand, indicating pretty much the whole damn world.
"So then what's all this about?"
Jim shifts around until his knee rests between us. His arm comes to rest across the back of the seat, his fingers lightly brushing my shoulder before they settle behind me.
"Simon reached me at the property yesterday."
"Yeah? Why?" Like I don't know.
The hand behind my head leaves its perch long enough to give my ear a gentle tug. It's been so long since he's touched me that the feeling is almost overwhelming and I inhale through my nose to fight off the goofy little sob that wants to break out.
"To tell me what you should've told me yourself."
"I tried!" I protest weakly. "I left a message!"
"Yeah, right. You left a message, what, an hour before you left? When did you start to plan this whole thing?"
His voice is quiet, barely inquisitive and, I realize belatedly, chillingly angry—and I am so busted. I turn away from him to stare out the window, letting my hands rest on my thighs. The denim fabric against the flat of my palms feels good, feels normal.
"A while ago." My voice is as neutral as I can make it.
Instead of pushing me, he straightens around and puts the truck in gear.
"Seatbelt, Sandburg."
I put it on as Jim steers us into the non-existent traffic. At the first median turnaround, he flips an illegal U and we're headed back north.
"Where we going?" I ask softly. I feel a little like a twelve year old caught running away, but only a little. There are depths and currents in the atmosphere between us; strong feelings are running beneath the deep waters of our outward calm.
"Grant's Pass. There's a hotel on the south side of town. We'll get some sleep and head back in the morning."
I take his supposition in stride—then turn it on its ass. "Or maybe I take the next southbound Greyhound."
I turn to see him nodding. "Or you can do that."
That's pretty much it for conversation until we reach town. Jim takes the exit that promises eight different kinds of fast food and one Days Inn. We pull into its brightly lit, sparsely populated parking lot and get a place near the front door. I grab my stuff and Jim grabs his and we enter the turquoise and silver lobby to be greeted by the less than perky night clerk. Jim sets his bag down at the counter and I flop into the nearest pre-fab chair. Hey, this is his kidnapping—he can pay for the rooms.
Minutes later we're walking down a blandly colored corridor to rooms 203 and 205. Aside from a couple of half conversations—"Need help with that?"—"Nah, I got it"—we haven't said much. We both know there's a conversation lying in wait for us but I'm so tired, I can't remember my side of the story.
I need sleep—and Jim, being Jim and all that he is to me, knows it.
He hands me a key card but follows me into my room. There's an adjoining door and he goes through it to a room that mirrors my own. He sets his bag down and then comes back into my room where I'm still standing, staring into space and holding onto my stuff, vaguely wondering if this is all a diesel-fueled dream and I'm still on that damn bus, fending off the Gold-Toothed Smiling Guy.
Jim takes the strap of my duffel from my hand and puts it on the bed and when I'm still not moving, he peels open my other hand and gets possession of the backpack.
I finally break out of my fugue state just as he comes to stand in front of me. His eyes—pale blue except for the dark rim around the iris that elevates them from nice to beautiful—are also red and tired and they're trying to tell me something but I can't figure it out. His hands look pale in the harsh light of the motel room as they reach toward me.
"I can manage the rest," I mutter, reaching up to untie my hair.
Jim pauses, then drops his hands to watch me silently. I make a show of reaching for the bottom of my henley, so he heads back into his room. Before he shuts the door completely, he points a long finger at me.
"Sleep as long as you can. You look like hell."
Gee, thanks, considering I feel worse than I look.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I strip to shorts and tee and turn out all the lights. Only then do I pull back the covers from the bed—if there's something nasty down there, I don't wanna deal with it. The sheet is as thin as a layer of phyllo dough and about as warm; the blanket on top of that is scratchy and I think about Jim next door. He is going to absolutely hate the slide of the rough fabric against his skin. Still, I'm cold, so I pull the polyester bedspread up close around my ear as I turn on my side.
There's a bar of light beneath our connecting door. I stare at it, wondering how it was I ended up here.
Think, Sandburg. Jim called in the freakin' Oregon State Patrol to find you. He drove through the middle of the night to collect you. He turned you north when you were sure you were headed south and you went along with barely a protest, knowing that you'd walk through hell if he asked you. So, what's the big deal about getting off a bus?
There's a point in there somewhere but at that moment the light next door is extinguished and I fall asleep.
I know I'm awake—but apparently, I'm also blind. I blink slowly into a stuffy nothingness, finally realizing I've pulled one of the flat pillows over my head. You know, I think I have socks thicker than these stupid things.
With slow precision, I pull the pillow off. It's dark except for the bright vertical line in front of me. It takes me a minute, but I finally figure out it's where the drapes don't quite meet, and that brilliant stripe is the sun sneaking through.
I choke on a swift intake of stale air and sit up, scraping the hair out of my eyes. In the unfamiliar room, I have to search around for the little clock and when I find it, my heart stutters and then skips on madly.
2:37 p.m.
Okay, okay, settle down, don't panic and think about this. It goes something like bus ride, State trooper, Jim, "Sleep!"—and Jesus, I'm so thirsty. I untangle my legs from the bottom sheet—hello, anyone ever heard of fitted sheets?—and stagger to the bathroom. Frankly, I'm too afraid to turn on the light and get a good look at myself, so I feel my way for the glass I'd used the night before. Three refills of tepid water later, I lean my hands on the faux marble countertop and lower my head as my aching body feels the weight of utter defeat.
Why does it all seem so dumb now? Is it because I've just had a good night's sleep for the first time in weeks? Was calling Christopher in Arizona and wangling a job a smart move or a futile attempt to stop the pain? God—I have the sudden, numbing feeling that I'm asking all the wrong questions. My knees get that Jell-O-y feeling so I take a seat on the cold edge of the bathtub and scrub at my face because all the hindsight in the world doesn't change two facts:
One, Jim came after me and two, somewhere, right now, Jim is waiting for me.
In forty-five minutes, I'm bathed, shaved and minty fresh. I'm also trying very hard to be mad. No, not just mad—righteously indignant. And frankly, part of me is just that. I mean, who does he think he is, that he can just—
There's a knock at the door. I've just pulled open the drapes so I hurry across the room and look through the peephole, even though I know exactly who's there. Oh man, even better—Jim's standing there with a pizza box in one hand and a brown paper bag shaped like a six-pack in the other. I get the door open and he pushes past me, handing me the bag which is promisingly cold and damp.
"What kind?" I ask, sniffing suspiciously. Amazing how old patterns reassert themselves so quickly. Too quickly. I grab again for my anger—and miss.
"Greek, and yes, I had a hell of a time finding a place that knows how to make one," he replies as he heads toward the sliding glass door. Turns out our little home away from home backs onto a slow-moving river shaded on either side by trees now brilliant in their autumn colors. I've got a tiny little deck with just enough room for two metal chairs and matching table, and it's there the pizza ends up.
"And the beer?" I call out, grabbing for the ice bucket.
"Pete's Wicked," he calls back as he pulls a wad of napkins out of the back pocket of his jeans. He's got on a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of loafers, he's fit and tan from all the hard work in the sun—yeah, he looks fucking marvelous.
I stare down into the empty bucket. "This is gonna be so damn hard," I whisper to myself.
"I know," he replies, loud enough for me to hear him clearly. He has yet to truly look me in the eyes.
Shit. This is worse or better than I thought— so I decide I'll get some ice.
By the time I get back, he's got his loafers off and his long legs are propped up on the metal rail. Two bottles are already open, sitting on either side of the table on the floor of the balcony. The pizza is still covered up because it's November and even though it's sunny outside, it can't be above 50.
What the hell. I grab my jacket and take off my shoes, leave on the socks, and join my warmer-blooded best friend out on the deck.
The pizza is soggy and lukewarm and maybe the best thing I've tasted in weeks. I don't know about Jim, but I use it as an excuse not to talk. But that only lasts so long and with the way I've been eating lately—or not eating—I fill up after one slice.
Jim is his usual efficient self. He whisks away the cardboard and empties, returning with the ice bucket for the rest of the beer. The sun is gently warming us now as he opens two more bottles. I take one from him, give him a little salute with it, and indulge in a long swallow.
"I want you to come back with me, you know," he says quietly, and they're exactly the right words.
"Come back where?"
"Yakima."
God. Totally the wrong place.
"No."
"It's not what you think—"
I shake my head. "Doesn't matter."
"The hell it doesn't!" he snarls, the first strong emotion I've seen from him since—since before he left. He sets the bottle on the table with a harsh clank and stands up to look out over the river. His back is to me and in that brief moment of privacy, I feel my composure break. I screw my eyes tightly shut and then open them wide, trying to dispel the momentary lapse of control.
"Look," I begin, and my voice is hollow so I start over. "Look. I'm happy for you, Jim, really, I am. But it's time to move on, know what I mean?"
"Move on from what?" he says tightly, ignoring the first part of my declaration. He's still turned away from me, his arms crossed over his chest. "And why now?"
I blink at that. Come on, Jim, isn't it obvious, even to you?
I shrug although he can't see it and then I give him the only answer possible.
"Because you did."
He swerves at those three words and when I look into his eyes, I see anger. When he speaks, his voice is laced with it.
"Sandburg, that is a load of total crap and you know it! How many times did I tell you I was coming back, hunh? Do you not understand the difference between 'leave of absence' and 'resignation'? Jesus H. Christ, you couldn't wait to get out of there, could you?"
"Hey!" I break in sharply. "You're the one who took off, so don't give me any shit about your abandonment issues, ok?"
He opens his mouth to retort then slams it shut, disappointment in every line of his slumping posture.
"Sorry," he says, although I'm not convinced that he is. "I just never expected you'd pull something like this now. That you'd just up and leave."
His voice deepens alarmingly on that last word and he turns away, but not before I see the glint of something like panic in his eyes.
What the hell is going on here?
"No—no," I say firmly, trying to put a brake on this runaway conversation. "It wasn't like that, honestly. You just—you just kept putting off coming home, and I figured with Maddy and all, even if you did come home, you'd want—"
I break off and swallow hard. Jim shifts to face me and his expression is tightly controlled.
"I'd want what, Chief?"
Oh, Jesus, don't use that name. Please don't.
"You'd want to, you know, be with her." I smile and spread my hands. "Just trying to save you the trouble of asking me to get lost."
Jim scrubs a hand across his face as a cloud passes over the sun, dropping the temperature. I shiver and he sees it, so he offers me his hand to get up. I hesitate, then grab it and sure enough, those long fingers of his are warm and comforting and I don't want to let go. Not ever.
But I do. I grab the ice bucket with the two unopened bottles and Jim grabs the others and we head back into my room where things will only get more awkward. We can fuss with the mess just so long before we meet up again at the foot of the bed where Jim pulls something out of his wallet and hands it to me.
"Here. They, uh, had them in the lobby."
It's the Greyhound Bus schedule. I try to say thanks but the word is stuck in my throat, behind the tears I refuse to let him see. I nod and shove it unseen into my back pocket.
"Blair, look at me."
My gaze is pinned to the third button of his polo shirt.
"Blair."
This is no good—he's switched from nickname to real name. I take a deep breath and raise my eyes. We've reached that place in the conversati0n where he's going to say something I don't want to hear and I'm going to have to tell him I'll be leaving in the morning.
"Yeah?"
He tilts his head and gives me a crooked smile. I have no idea what's coming.
"It'll just be you and me, if that makes any difference."
The words just bounce off my forehead and I frown in total confusion.
"Me and you? Where?"
Jim closes his eyes in frustration, a look I know very well. Reopening them to pin me with the intense gaze he uses on a particularly obtuse witness, he points at me and silently mouths the word "you". Then he jerks his thumb toward his chest, only this time, the word is "me". He finishes by nodding his head in what I must assume is a northerly direction.
The air is sucked out of my lungs as the implication hits home.
"Oh, my God, you broke up! With Maddy—you two broke up?"
"No, we didn't break up." He leans forward until his lips are right next to my ear to whisper conspiratorially. "We were never together."
When he doesn't move back, I surprise us both by giving him a little shove to get him out of my space. He's been talking low, handling me like I'm a scared sparrow with a broken wing and I'm getting tired of it. My whole world view has just been completely messed with and I'm the last one to know and it's scary and when I'm scared I get pissed.
"So, if you two weren't together, then what—"
The cell phone in his pocket lets out a shrill whistle and we both jump. To my annoyance, he pulls it out and checks the caller I.D. to see who it is.
"Simon," he tells me with an apologetic shrug.
I take a step further back and cross my arms over my chest, blatantly listening in.
"Hey, Simon. Yeah, yeah. I know. C'mon, I don't want to ask him that, ok? All right, hold on—" he pulls the phone down to his shoulder, looking pained. "He wants to know if you're pissed off at him."
Well, that explains how Jim tracked me down, as if I didn't know already.
"Tell him yes," I answer, "but not half as pissed off as I am at you."
He starts to
repeat what I said, then pauses to see if I'm kidding. I'm not.
"He is," he says to Simon. "No. No. I don't know yet. We're still negotiating."
The phone is thrust at me. "He wants to talk to you."
I step back and wave my hands at him. "No, no!" I mouth frantically, but end up with the phone in my hand anyway.
"Uh, hey, Simon," I mutter, shooting a dark glance at my partn—at Jim.
"Blair—" Ok, now he's calling me by name. This is getting annoying. "—I'm sorry about giving you up to Jim, but you know damn well he deserves better from you."
Shit. Why is it that man can reduce me to a stuttering recruit in ten seconds flat? He's right, and that takes away all that righteous indignation I'm trying so hard to retain. I glance up at Jim who's looking vaguely embarrassed because of course, he's heard every word of both sides of the conversation.
"Yeah, I know. I screwed up again but don't sweat it, Simon. I'll still bring you back a souvenir."
"I don't want a goddamn souvenir! I'd much rather you just come back to work, detective. I can live without the Kachina doll. Put Jim back on the phone."
I hand the phone to Jim and turn aside as they continue their conversation—to be greeted by our reflection in the hotel room mirror. It's not a pretty picture. There's Jim, just like always, tall, clean cut, the embodiment of a hero. And then there's me—hair sticking out in ten different directions and a flannel shirt that's too big for me, half hanging out my jeans. I shove the shirttail in and move away, since the view isn't all that great from where I stand.
I reach behind me to pull the schedule out of my back pocket and to my surprise, I intercept Jim's hand. Looking over my shoulder, I see a puzzled look on his face. As he says an absent-minded farewell to Simon, he slides a finger into my belt loop and gives it a tug. A strange look passes through his eyes but he doesn't say anything, so I step out of his reach and unfold the timetable.
"Aw, damn it," I mutter after a minute, "this is just great."
"What's wrong?"
Everything, I want to shout, but instead I say, "Next southbound bus doesn't come through here until tomorrow morning at 5:00. Can you believe that?" I fling the schedule onto the bed, completely defeated. I've been lower in my life—a lot lower—but this is different. Three months ago I thought paradise was within my reach and tonight I damn well may be sleeping in a bus station.
When Jim's arm slide around me from behind, I stiffen in surprise. His big hand rests on my waist, his thumb sneaking up to stroke across my ribs.
"I'm going to be on that bus, Jim," I warn, desperately reminding myself not to read anything in to this intimate touch. His hand is not removed. Instead, he takes a step closer until his body is fitted against mine. "I promised I'd be down there by Monday."
"Ok," he breathes against my ear, "but until then, I think I'll stick around. We still have a lot to talk about."
He releases me and moves away, and where I had been warm with the heat of his body, I'm now chilled. He steps around me and places his hands on his hips.
"You hungry?"
"Uh, Jim? We just ate, man. You grow a hollow leg or something?"
"I ate. You picked. Let's see if we can't find a coffee shop around here."
"Wait a minute—aren't we way past check out time?"
He cuts me a look out of the corner of his eye as we head out the door. "Rooms are paid through tonight."
So, no sleeping in the station. Always a good thing in my book.
I follow him in his quest to find a restaurant; let's face it, I have a lot of time to kill. We head out of the motel on foot and turn onto the main drag, finding a little truck stop restaurant about a block away. I don't want to tell him I'm not hungry; after all, this does give us something to do. Maybe I should have been more weirded out about this surreal side trip, but with Jim and I, nothing is ever cut and dried and it's best to just go with it, even though every step beside him is like walking on broken glass. But it's as we walk that I'm hit with the realization that Jim never forgot about that kiss in the parking garage any more than I did—and that terrifies me, because he's going to make me face up to what it meant to both of us.
So much for my clean getaway.
Twenty minutes late I have what is optimistically referred to as a chef's salad parked in front of me. The lettuce is translucent and the cheese and the meat are the same color. Jim is sitting across from me, looking so normal I can almost believe that it's just another day in our lives.
I, on the other hand, am a wreck. My skin feels flushed with the energy escaping off me. The need to question, to rant, to declare things best left unsaid is all there, close to the surface, but I'm afraid if I start, I won't be able to stop.
Instead, I pour a thin mixture of oil and vinegar on top of my salad, pushing aside the grayish hard boiled egg. Then I set my fork aside and take a sip of water. And wait.
Jim has already finished his cherry pie with vanilla ice cream and is sipping his coffee and glaring at my plate.
Just as I gather up a forkful of salad, he drops a bomb.
"I've told Maddy about the Sentinel thing."
The fork drops to the linoleum table with a clatter. I swallow hard, pick it up and set it very carefully down on the plate. Then I tuck my hands between my thighs and the cracked plastic seat, leaning back on a harshly indrawn breath.
"Okay. I think maybe you'd better start at the beginning."
For the first time since plucking me off the midnight bus to California, Jim looks uncertain. He gives the waitress an absent frown as his cup is refilled, then wraps both hands around the thick ceramic mug. As he begins to speak, his eyes are fixed on the too-shiny surface of the coffee as if the answer to the question of Blair Sandburg could be found there. Trust me, Jim—it can't.
"Okay. You know how I know Maddy, right?"
I nod. Madeleine Hamilton was the widow of one the men Jim went down with in Peru; Will is their now teenaged son. Jim and the Hamiltons had shared a lot of postings and had become good friends over the years; Jim once showed me a picture of him posing with Randy Hamilton and his family— but even then, my eyes were only for a young, intense Jim Ellison in olive drab.
"And you know why I went to Yakima to help her out."
"Sure," is my noncommittal response. Widowed and still beautiful, with a son out of control and a father laid up from a heart attack, about to lose the farm—gee, it only needed a knight to arrive on a white horse to complete the cliché.
Enter Jim Ellison in his trusty two-tone Ford. Pre-mixed hero, just add water.
He pauses and I squash my instinctive reaction, to fill the void with talk. I could say that I understand completely, thereby letting him off the hook and avoiding hearing the confirmation of weeks of miserable speculation on my part. But this time I don't, because a clean break is what I need to start over and a clean break is what I'm sure I'll get.
Jim is talking again, mentioning how much better Robert, Maddy's dad, has been doing. His reticence fades as he talks about Will and how they've connected; his face fairly glows with pride. Will had been rebelling something awful and Maddy had been at her wit's end, dealing with him and her dad and the harvest.
Jim stops and takes a sip of coffee. I nibble on a rubbery slice of carrot.
"Last week, one of the farm workers fell into an unused well. No one knew he was missing until the trucks came to take the men back into town and when he was unaccounted for, we started searching." He pauses and tugs at his ear, shooting me a quick smile. After all these years, he still isn't comfortable describing his abilities. "I, uh—I heard him moaning from the other side of the property and we got him out. He's ok, but Maddy caught on and with what she already knew, she wanted an explanation."
"So, you told her. You just told her everything."
"Pretty much, yeah."
Even as my cheeks turned red, I ask, "Did that include me?"
A surprisingly sweet, affectionate smile graces Jim's face and I'm blindsided by a wave of bittersweet longing for the man who sits across from me. The problem is that I have no idea if that affection is for me.
"You better believe it," he says easily. As the conversation goes on, he's becoming more relaxed. I can't face the salad anymore, but I have managed to choke down one of the cardboard breadstick things they gave me. I don't know what to say to his admission, so I lower my eyes.
"So, the reason I needed all that info from you was because I've decided to buy the farm from Maddy. They're moving back to Georgia."
My eyes fly up to meet his. "Did you just say—did you just say you bought the apple farm?"
He nods at me, looking vulnerable again and through my shock, I realize my reaction is very important to him. As stupefying as his pronouncement is, it's nothing compared to the joy that races through my veins as it sinks in that there really isn't anything between Jim and Maddy.
"Oh, my God," I say slowly. "That was the surprise!"
Jim looks confused. "Well, yeah. What did you think it was?"
Can I actually say the words? Guess I'll have to.
"I thought," I take a deep breath and rush out the rest of the sentence. "I thought you were going to marry Maddy."
Jim stares at me like I've grown pointed ears. "You're kidding me."
"Nope."
He braces his hands against the edge of the table and presses his upper body back into the seat. On his face is that look that tells me he's beginning to figure it out, just like when a case comes together in his mind before he's ready to talk about it. Normally, I love that look, enjoy it, watch for it. Today, I fear it.
Nothing between Jim and Maddy except friendship. And that means—well, it has to mean nothing, because I still have a bus to catch and Jim hasn't given me a good reason not to.
But I can't stop myself from grinning at him, and with that, Jim relaxes and grins back.
"Well, what do you know. Farmer Jim. Bet you got overalls and everything, right? Hey, you already have the right truck. Man, I can't wait to get a picture and show the guys at the station."'
Even as I say it, my smile fades and I look away. No chance of that now.
But Jim takes it in stride. "Paybacks are a bitch, Chief. Just remember that." With a last, impatient look at my salad, he signals for the check.
I reach for my wallet and he waves me off, so I wander outside while he pays. The day had clouded over considerably and I pull on my jacket, huddling inside it for some illusory warmth. To say I feel shell-shocked is an understatement. In his usual matter-of-fact way, Jim has told me he's purchased an apple farm and that he's not marrying Maddy.
Oh my God. He's not marrying Maddy.
And I'm due in New Mexico in three days.
Son of a bitch.
I pivot and start walking blindly down the street, heading God knows where. There's a flight of stairs leading down to a river walk that parallels the street and runs past the motel, so I descend them, my only thought to get some distance between me and the oppressive pain of this impossible situation.
With the weather turning bad and the darkness already descending in this early evening hour, the walk is deserted. I tuck my hands into my pockets and bow my head into the wind, grateful for the well-lit path that winds its way along the lazy curves of the river. The cold stings my eyes and I make believe that's why they feel sore.
Ah, Jim, why did you have to do this? Why now—why did you have to make the grand gesture of coming to find me? I can't undo anything—that's been made crystal clear to both of us, right?—and I can't pretend anymore. I can't pretend that I don't love you, that the decisions you make don't affect me profoundly, that our life together hasn't come to an end.
Why did you come, Jim?
The walkway swells into a little seating area that juts out over the placid river. Built-in benches are scattered around the square-shaped platform, but I ignore them to wedge myself into the corner that's closest to the water. As I rest my hands on the handrail, a large drop of rain splashes against my knuckles. Perfect.
The river below is muddy, roiled by bad weather miles away. Debris washes slowly past me, sticks and leaves and indefinable things, giving me focus but no answers. The rain doesn't increase but it doesn't go away, either. Frankly, it's just enough to be annoying.
Some indeterminate time later, both the night and low clouds pressing down on me, I feel a nudge on my shoulder. Sighing, I turn to face Jim, who is yet again coming with gifts. In either hand is a Starbucks cup, complete with the brown cuff to protect tender fingers. I take the one offered to me and give it a tentative sip. Looking up into Jim's concerned eyes, I give him a genuine, if small, smile.
"So, you do listen," I say, taking a deeper drink of my favorite coffee combination—double tall mocha with a shot of hazelnut. Jim always rolls his eyes when I order, silently making fun of my refined tastes as he slurps down his americano or plain coffee or whatever mundane thing he's ordered.
He looks mildly amused and nods, taking a position off my right shoulder as I turn back to the river.
"How can you be a farmer and a cop?" I ask with a coolness that surprises me.
He shrugs, the movement causing his shoulder to rub against mine. "Farm pretty much takes care of itself. There's a co-op that sees to most of it—the trees, the picking, pest control, stuff like that. From now until spring there isn't a lot to do. The house is another story; even with all the work I've done on it, there's a lot left to do. I figure as long as the weather is good, we—I mean, I—can go over on my days off."
I nod as if that sounds perfectly logical and I tell myself to ignore his little slip of the tongue.
"So, you're going back to work soon?"
"Yeah. I told Simon when he called yesterday that I was cutting my leave short."
I swallow hard as my fingers begin to fret the hard plastic lid of the cup. There really isn't a whole lot more to say.
"You ready to come inside?" he asks, and I feel like he's anxious to herd me back to a place where he can read my eyes. Or maybe try to feed me again.
"What time is it?"
"Little after eight."
I take another long drink, the warm, milky sweetness a welcome sensation in my dry mouth. The way I figure it, Jim is just as confused about why we're here as I am.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Might as well turn in early since I gotta be up at oh-dark hundred to catch that bus."
I turn to brush past him—the stricken look on his face is heartbreaking, but it quickly turns to anger.
"Jesus, Sandburg, it never meant anything at all, did it?"
I squint at him through the quickening breeze, wondering which part of our lives he's referring to. He sees my hesitation and viciously chucks his coffee into a nearby trash can.
"What?" I stutter.
"Any of it." The bitterness in his voice cuts through me sharper than the cold November wind that's growing thick with rain.
This is okay, I chant silently, this is okay. Clean break. Jim stalks away, taking the stairs that lead back up to the hotel. From here I can see our rooms, I think—but I wonder if my legs have the strength to get me there.
By the time I reach my door I'm chilled and so the first thing I do is peel everything off and take as hot a shower as I can stand. My skin warms up but the heat does nothing to melt the ice in the pit of my stomach, or blot out the terrible knowledge that leaving without talking to Jim one last time would be the last mistake in a very long line of them.
Half my mind is thinking practically, so I pack up the stuff that's managed to get loose, but first I dry my hair and shave to save me time in the morning. I hear absolutely nothing coming from the room next door and for all I know, Jim has already left the building. When I have nothing left to do but crawl into bed, I turn out all the lights and stand in the little space between the bathroom and the closet. There is no light beneath the connecting door tonight, and my tired mind takes that as an omen. No light—no Jim.
Hey, Jim? I don't want to go to New Mexico. I want to go with you to Yakima, I want to see your land and your apples, I want to work at your side and make that house you speak of with such amusement a home—our home. I want to be your partner, your best friend and your lover and maybe it's time I tell you that so that I can leave knowing you have nothing to wonder about.
By the luminous light of the digital clock, I unlock the deadbolt and slip into his room. Deep down, I knew Jim was still here. He has his drapes open, so there's just enough light for me to see that he's in bed, curled away from me and facing the night. It never occurs to me that he's asleep, that he doesn't know I'm here. I slide down the side of the bed onto the floor, resting my right arm on the mattress, about at the level of Jim's hip. He doesn't turn over, so I support my chin on my arm, wishing I'd brought a blanket because in my tee shirt and shorts, I'm a little chilly.
After a few minutes of absolute silence, I take a shallow breath and say my piece.
"When you kissed me, I thought it meant what I wanted it to mean. When you left right afterward, I knew that it didn't and that's why I quit and that's why I'm going to New Mexico."
My words, simple and heartfelt, fall gently between us. I wait, wondering what, if anything, Jim will say. Instead of answering, he slowly turns over onto his right side, dragging the sheet and blanket with him and tucking them beneath his arm. He's bare-chested and his hair is kind of mussed up and I wish to God I was seeing him like this under different circumstances.
"When I kissed you," he says, his voice oddly rough, "I knew that I couldn't hide anymore. That's why when Maddy called, I left. I needed to know if I was going to be able to handle what loving you meant to me."
"You mean—you mean you left because you wanted to forget me."
His hand comes down on my head stays there for a few seconds before moving to stroke the hair away from my face. "No, you idiot," he replies, "to get ready for you."
The rhythmic feel of his fingers gliding across my scalp is making me dizzy. "Get—hunh? I don't understand."
The stroking stops and is instantly missed, but then Jim is sliding to the other side of the bed and lifting the sheet, an obvious invitation. I tell myself it's only because I'm cold and then slide in next to him to settle on my back, staring at the ceiling.
Jim situates himself beside me so that he's looking down into my face with his head propped on his hand. I can feel his patience beating against me, so I sigh and turn my head towards the sound of his breathing. Before I can restate my question, he leans over and kisses me.
This is nothing like that adrenaline fueled pair of kisses snatched in a smelly garage, the ones that left us both bewildered and thrilled. No, this is the kiss of a man, maybe a man in love, a man who wants to express that fragile emotion with his body.
I open up to him and close my eyes, letting him have his way as he moves his lips over my mouth. No demands, no pressure, only a gentle exploration. He tucks his mouth against mine and pulls tenderly at my upper lip as his hand steals across my abdomen. When he leans back, that hand remains, solid and warm, below my rib cage.
My eyes search out his but I can only approximate where they are—my sight isn't that good.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I whisper almost silently. There's no strength to lend to my voice right now.
"I did. You just didn't hear me."
"It can't be that easy, Jim. It just can't. Look at you—you thrived without me, you—you were happy without me around all time."
The hand on my stomach rubs soothingly, rucking up my tee shirt. When he speaks, his voice is dry and amused. "No, Chief, as usual, you have it all bass ackwards. Every day, every fucking day, all I thought about was what I had to offer you. And every day, I tried to make sure there was more—more trust, more strength, God, I don't know—more Jim Ellison and less cop and a hell of a lot less sentinel. I wanted to come back to you better than I left you. "
He pauses and I can feel his discomfort. I even have to smile a bit because no doubt this new and improved Jim Ellison just expected me to "get it" and is totally confounded that I most emphatically did not.
"Okay," I say. With great care, I raise my hand and brush my knuckles down his lightly stubbled cheek. He leans into the touch and my breath hitches, because he's been honest and I have no recourse but to match that honesty.
"You're my life," I start, and that earns me a swift kiss pressed to the palm of my hand. "But that's—that's not good. As I know you've noticed, I didn't do so well after you left. Work was okay, but every time I went into the bull pen without you, I guess I died a little inside. It all just felt so wrong. Maybe—maybe if we hadn't, you know, in the garage, it would've been easier, but instead, it just made everything hurt."
Jim inhales sharply, then slides down until his forehead rests against the side of my face.
"I'm so sorry," he says, and his voice is hardly more than a warm draft on my cheek. I nod and wrap my arms around him, blinking hard into the darkness above me.
"S'okay," I murmur. "I love you, you know."
He burrows his head into my neck and breathes deeply. "Then stay with me."
"I can't," I whisper into the softness of his hair, "but I promise I'll come back."
When he lifts his head, I kiss him. There's the slightest thread of desperation in my offering, and Jim feels it.
"Shhh," he whispers into my mouth. His hand slides down and then up beneath my tee shirt, his fingers dancing over my skin, leaving trails of fire. I arch into his touch as a moan breaks from me. Jim swallows it, kissing me deeply, his tongue swiping delicately against mine. His touch, his taste—I have to have more.
I wedge my hands between us, stroking up and over that broad expanse of soft, perfect skin. I can feel his muscles flinch and then surge up to my seeking fingers. His hands fumble at the hem of my shirt, then he's guiding me to sit up so he can slide it over my head. I raise my arms and the shirt is gone—when I lower my arms, Jim is there, pulling my tightly to his chest and rolling me on top of him.
The feel of his body beneath mine is exquisite, and an epiphany of heat and love bursts inside of me. Our mouths are frantically seeking each other, breathless moans are offered and accepted. His hands are flying over my back and up into my hair, over and over, until one hand slips down and underneath the waistband of my shorts.
"God," I whisper, resting my head on his shoulder, "Jim, please."
"Yes," he vows, and then his hands are gliding the fabric off my hips. The bedclothes have gotten tangled between us, so as I shift my legs, I sweep them off the end of the bed, knowing our passion will keep us warm. Jim's arms come around me from behind and he lays me down next to him, the naked line of his body pressed tightly to mine. I shift around, rolling into his embrace, and the contact is incendiary.
Our two bodies are famished for each other and I have a fleeting memory of all the times I'd felt Jim's body next to mine, all the dangerous, tragic episodes where we'd touched intimately. For every time that had happened, my body had cried out when it stopped, as if it knew in its very molecules that this man, this body, this very soul was the match to mine. And now, given free rein, my body rejoices, thrusting and pulling until I've lost the feeling that there isn't anything left of Blair Sandburg at all, only some joyful, alien creation set free by the act of Jim's love.
I've been a vocal lover in my past, but my faith in Jim has transcended my need to speak. He anticipates every need; his hands, his fingers, his mouth are there before I can formulate the desire. He plays me beautifully, matching my clumsy caresses with graceful responses until I'm practically pounding myself against him, trusting him to catch me when I fall. When his touch turns reckless, I realize his desperation is as keen as mine. He's soaked up everything I've given him and demanded more, but when I think I have nothing more to offer him, he bows his head low and takes me into his mouth.
I cry out at that, not expecting it and undone by his generosity. With no more than the lightest stroke of his tongue against me, I feel my release gather at the base of my spine. Before I can warn Jim away, he's moved back up to my side and is kissing me hard, clutching me, smothering me, loving me with such force that it rips me apart and sends me flying. From a distance, I hear him answer me with a hoarse shout and then there's more streaming heat to mingle with the already cooling liquid that anoints us—that blesses us.
Jim remains momentarily rigid, then he's gathering me close and rocking me, whispering words I can't quite hear into my sweat-slicked throat. For a while we stay that way, but when I feel a nascent shiver I plant a kiss above his heart, then tug at him to help me gather the sheet and blanket around us. Thus cocooned, held safe in Jim's arms and flush with the possibility of a truly happy ending, I settle in. Jim's sleepy exhalations are brushing my cheek and I'm so grateful, so intensely appreciative to a world that lets mistakes go not only unpunished, but rewarded tenfold, that I know I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
I tell Jim to stay in bed and of course he doesn't. I tell him to not get dressed and of course he does. I argue with him about taking me to the bus station—all the way to the bus station.
"Jim," I whisper as he drives me there, our fingers entwined on the seat between us, "it's four o'clock in the morning!"
He slants an amused look my way, knowing as well as I do that my protests are token. There's no way Jim Ellison was going to let me slink off in the middle of the night and for that I'm glad. As we drive through the darkness, our earlier conversation in the hotel room comes back to me.
I'd come out of the shower and he was already sitting up, the light next to his side of the bed on full. He was searching in the phone book for something, the sheet pooled around his hips and looking entirely too hot for such an early hour.
"Hey," I whispered, because it was the middle of the night, "what are you doing?"
"Getting the address for Greyhound," he replied matter-of-factly. Apparently he found it, because the book was shut with a snap. He started searching around for clothes and I continued to gape at him until he came over and closed my mouth with a kiss. When he started to move away, I detained him with a hand on his arm.
"You know why I have to go, right?"
He raised an eyebrow and nodded hesitantly. "You made a commitment."
I shook my head. "Yeah, I did, but that's not the only reason, okay?"
At his puzzled look, I continued. "I need to—to do what you did. I need to get healthy, to prove to myself that I'm strong without you, even though being without you feels like an open wound." He started to interrupt but I held up my hand. "It's like you said—you wanted to come back better. That's what I want to do. For us."
I started to grin, for the first time in a long time feeling like I was on the right track. "Look, let me go down there, do my thing for six weeks knowing that—well, that you love me, and when I come back, maybe you'll hire me to pick apples or something."
Jim frowned. "You don't want to come back to the PD?"
I shook my head, smiling ruefully. "By the time I get back, they'll have replaced me."
"That's not what I asked."
I stood on my toes and kissed him. "Let's wait til we get that far, ok? In the meantime—we got anything to eat around here?"
Now as the bus sat idling in one of the foul-smelling bays, Jim stands solidly at my side as we watch my duffel bag get loaded into the belly of the beast. There's been a lot of surreptitious touching since we got here and I wonder if Jim is storing up sensory memories.
I shock myself by realizing that I don't care. Jim wanted to be nothing more and nothing less than a man for me—not a partner, not a sentinel. His amazing abilities are not why I love him and it's that thought that suffuses me with a feeling of such contentment that I turn my eyes to Jim to share it. He sees it and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
"Six weeks," I mouth as the announcement is made for passengers to load the bus.
"I love you," he says back, very clearly. I shake my head at my sentimental, stubborn lover and reach to give him a hug. His arms come around me and we hold each other, both of us full of words that will have to wait. After a final, intense moment, I release him and grab my backpack, toss the straps over my shoulder and get in line.
Jim waits on the platform as the bus pulls away. I keep eye contact with him as long as I can—longer, because I know he can see me when I can't see him. Finally, a turn around a corner separates us and I'm back on the road to New Mexico.
But this time, that road leads right back to Cascade, Washington—maybe with a side trip to Yakima—but more importantly, it will lead me back to my heart.
And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you
And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I
I'd like to thank my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. K. And the Lurkers. Of course, Aithine, too, who has promised me a highly placed administrative position when she rules the world.
Feedback: email.