Damage

Chapter 33

LUKE

4 months ago now.

4 months ago - fists colliding with tile, red, angry knuckles, recklessness, too many toxins and late nights to count, press releases, changing plans, exhaustion, rage and pain - never-ending that never decreases. Rage and pain that only learns to bottle itself up and sweep itself underneath the rug.

But that's the thing about sweeping things under the rug. They doesn't disappear. They're still there. Always there.

***

"Do you want to go somewhere?"

Mia looks so fragile from here, curled up against the car door, holding onto me for dear life, her lips just barely on mine. Like her small frame could break like glass, shattering into tiny pieces.  

Even if she seems better now, she still feels closed off. I know that she's hiding something and that the sobs just seconds ago come from someplace deeper, someplace she won't show.

She looks up at me for the tiniest fragment of a second with those dark, arresting eyes before looking down again, nodding her head silently.  

She reminds me so much of him and something in me wants to do whatever I can to make her not like this, to make her feel okay again.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Just...somewhere that's not here."

"Ok."

MIA

Luke stops by his place to pick up the clothes I was wearing last night and lets me change upstairs before we're off on the road, driving to who knows where.  

All I know is that we're outside the city and everything feels gentler, more calm, more at peace. The windows are up because it's too cold to let them down, but just seeing the rush of the trees and their autumn leaves from outside the window is mesmerizing. Fall feels soulful.

Even though it's cold out, the sun is still shining, illuminating the burnt oranges and reds of the leaves that we pass by, driving on the highway to what I can only guess is upstate.

There's something about crying hard and feeling the sun against your cheek afterwards, drying up the tears that were once there. You can feel them turn to dried salt, leaving little white streaks on your skin, a reminder of sadness that's passed.

Neither of us have said anything yet, but it's nice. We've been in the car maybe 20 minutes now and the silence is comforting in a way, not the kind where you feel obligated to fill it.

Luke clears his throat and is the first to break it.

"If you want, you can turn on the radio or something."

I was leaning against the window before but I sit up, looking at the center console so I can turn on the radio.

The large, circular button is charcoal grey with a silver rim and I press it, silently worrying that my fingerprint will leave a mark on this incredibly expensive car. But it doesn't really, and the station is already on NPR when I turn the radio on.  

I completely forget that it's Saturday until I hear Peter Sagal's voice and realize that "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me" is on. Memories of listening to the show on Saturday morning back home flood back and I realize that I haven't listened to the show since I moved away.

My hand hesitates on the button because I want nothing more than to listen in even though I figure that Luke probably doesn't. But he proves me wrong.