MAY
On TV, if the place where the main character works is closing, it's usually portrayed as somber or bittersweet because it meant a lot to them.
TV likes to exaggerate a lot of things, and this is no exception.
We lasted longer than I thought we would. My final day of work before this shitty, summer-clothes-only store closes forever is as slow-paced as always. Goth Guy pays attention even less than I do because both of us are watching the clock.
I call Alaska. Not to spill emotions, but to stare into her soul. To know someone as perfect as her exists. For a reason not to kill myself.
I have a jacket on because it's fucking cold. I'm not warming up, though. I blow onto my cupped palms and rub my arms.
The chips I inhaled fucking messed me up. My cravings are the main problem. I think about all the delicious shit I can't have. The food I find disgusting (before all of it became) sounds good, too.
I just want something, like a whole fucking footlong from Subway. Subway isn't even good, either. It's the McDonald's of sandwiches, the big nothing with the least amount of effort and taste, yet there's one in every little circle of restaurants.
Just because I want it doesn't mean I need it. It won't fill the hole.
I deserve to be empty. (Go get drunk, you fucking mistake).
I only open my mouth to hear myself talk. Conversing is, in itself, a sandwich. The two pieces of bread are the conversation starter. The meat of the sandwich, of the story, is the interesting part, or the climax. In between are the vegetables and condiments, the details that revolve around the conversation starter and the meat. There is an endless amount of flourishing and flavor to add.
And those listening eat it the hell up.
Alaska and I haven't gotten the plates out yet, let alone started making the fucking sandwich. (I fucking hate you).
She takes out the bread and puts it right on the counter. It collects germs. "I haven't seen you eat today."
I add some mustard - it burns. "That's because you haven't seen me at all. I did." (She doesn't give a fuck about you. No one does).
Lettuce, tastes like nothing. "What was it?"
Vinegar. "Cereal."
"This morning, or?"
Oil. "Like, eleven AM. I got up late."
"Hm. What else did you do today?"
There's this scene in Poltergeist where one of the paranormal investigators goes into the bathroom and the poltergeist creates an illusion showing him tearing his face off in a gorey fashion.
Imagine that, but replace Alaska's face with the fucking cop at the station I visited.
Laughing at me.
It's all I can think about. I'm sick to my stomach, but I need to finish making this sandwich.
More vinegar. "Nothing much," I say. "Hung with Gio."
There's no meat on this sandwich. It slid off the counter and onto the floor because there was too much vinegar and oil on it. The fucking plate wasn't there to keep it steady.
And we're both left hungry.
(You are a dirty, repulsive thing).
I shake my head. There's one thing I crave more than food. I need music.
The voice of Eddie Vedder is calling me. I put on Ten and try to block everything out, even the customers. I send them over to Goth Guy if they have questions.
There are scratches in the back of my throat and I can only assume it was the fucking chips that did it. It fucking hurts every time I swallow or talk.
Alaska hangs around, but there's an awkward silence between us. I could make another sandwich, but I don't deserve to eat a metaphorical one. I don't deserve Alaska, either.
When it's done, Bossman hands me my last paycheck and reminds me to go check out the burger joint. I thank him one more time. I don't know what for, but I feel like I have to.
I decided long ago that I'd rather be out of a job than to trigger binging by being around grease. I set the decision in stone by looking that fucking burger mascot right in the eye and walking right the fuck past him.
He does not control me.
Except right after that, I go to a Jersey Mike's and sit there as they make my fucking sandwich. I have time to mull it over and convince myself not to eat it, to bring it home and put it in the fridge. I could make it explicitly clear that this is my sandwich and I'm saving it for dinner. Candace will eat it because she's a spiteful cunt who doesn't give a fuck about what I say. When I have no sandwich, I'll have nothing to eat. Problem solved.
That shit sounds like way more work than just eating it like I want to. And Candace will find some way to argue with me no matter what. I can't have people watching me gorge myself, so I walk into an empty lot that's nearby and hide behind an abandoned store.
I got the smallest size possible, as if that would stop the guilt. The worst part is that I was obsessing over the taste and now I'm not eating slowly enough to taste it. I chew and the second a piece is down my throat, the sandwich is back in my mouth. If anyone saw me, they'd think I hadn't eaten in days.
Oh, wait.
Bulimia is a tragedy made into an art out of desperate suffering. Teeth prick my fingers like thorns and blood clot roses bloom in my cuticles. There is no garden in my stomach, only weeds curling around my bones. I can't let the compost settle. I need to shrivel up and fucking die.
I have to keep my mouth shut. Dad will implode if I tell him I don't have a job anymore. I'm going to stay in my room and just leave for school. I graduate in ten days and I can finally say I completed something.
I dart down the street because I'm not empty. I didn't get everything out, but I don't want to purge again. Everything fucking hurts. I'll run until I puke because nothing fucking matters.
As I'm pulsing through my neighborhood, I catch up with the back of Dad's car.
Jesus Christ, please, no.
I lag behind the car, but he stops in the middle of the fucking road and waves me over. "Hey, son. I have great news! Get in and I'll give you a ride home."
"Nah, I think I'll walk," I say, but he insists. Despite my better judgement, I get in the passenger seat. "Well, what's the news?" I ask hesitantly.
"It's too much to explain here. I'll tell you soon."
Surprisingly, he's completely sober. It's probably far-fetched, but I start smiling, almost giddy. "You're going to rehab?"
He responds, "What? No," as if that's the most insane thing I could've suggested.
I frown. "Then whatever news you have doesn't matter."
Dad rolls his eyes and parks the car. He quickly rushes me into the house. Gripping me by the shoulders, he shakily smiles. "John Wayne Gacy was executed today!"
"Is that it?" I blanch.
"Yes, yes! Isn't it great?"
"I mean, yeah. He was evil, but why are you so happy? You're never this excited about anything."
Dad's not even listening to me. "We should go out and celebrate!"
"Let me guess, I'm paying?"
He ignores my question. "I want you to be as relieved as I am."
"But why? Gacy's been off the streets for years."
"That doesn't mean he couldn't have escaped," Dad snapped. "You'll never understand the paranoia I went through when you were young."
I almost bring up Richard Ramirez until he starts smiling again. "Oh, and aren't you graduating? We can celebrate that, too. I've got a surprise."
He never does anything for me unless he can get something from it. Distrust bleeds through my words. "You're definitely not fucking with me, right?"
"Nah, nah." Dad dismissively waves his hand, looking me directly in the eyes. His forehead is crinkled like he's about to cry. "I want to make it up to you."
"Really? You mean it?" I might cry, too. I'm nearly ecstatic. "Thanks, Dad."
Dad goes in for a hug, but I stop him. "Too soon, old man."
He laughs. "Okay. Uh, and can I have, like, ten bucks?" I glare, and he clarifies, "For gas. Seriously."
And there it is.
"Mhm," I say flatly, taking out the money and staring at it for a while. "Hey, Dad? Since I've got your attention, I guess I should tell you that...Sun of a Beach closed."
I shut my eyes and wait for the screaming to begin, but he shocks me again. "The store you worked at was called Sun of a Beach? No wonder it shut down. That's a horrible name."
"Y-You're not mad? I literally don't have a job. I'm not making money anymore. I just wanna make sure you heard me."
"Who cares? We have Candace."
Jesus Christ, maybe he's even more stupid than I am. I purse my lips. An awkward silence fills the room and when it's obvious I don't have an answer, Dad clicks his tongue. He says he'll see me on the last day of school, already halfway into the kitchen.
Expecting to hear him fucking around with his drug tools, I stay in place. I'm still extremely skeptical, but I want to believe in him, mostly for myself. I need some kind of sign that things might get better in some way. This could be it, it has to be.
All the sudden, Dad comes back in with some beers and starts to drink casually. "First celebratory drink," he muses, grinning. I keep my eyes locked on him. Even though I hate this, at least Candace hasn't come out of her room. I could just imagine the snide comments she'd make. My gross-looking hands shake at the meer thought.
"Could it be your last one?" I ask hopefully.
He holds up a can. "You want one? I know you drink. You can't pretend you don't. It's really not as bad as the shit I do."
I don't know where this pseudo vigilant side of him came from, but I don't like it. The idea of drinking with him makes my stomach hurt. The alarm bells that should've gone off long ago are blaring around a man I'm biologically programmed to trust, even as he broke it over and over. A man who made it seem as if he was trying to repair that trust before now.
He's going to do something to get us in trouble and blame me. He's trying to make me drink so he has an excuse to. I shake my head really fast and make an "Uh-uh" noise, like a child.
Dad, you're never this calm. You're scaring me.
And he says, "Well, we can just talk."
"I w-want you to s-stop drinking. Or I won't t-talk to you."
He does that long stare again, takes a drink that's just as long, and puts it down. Then, he goes back to staring, as if he expects me to start a conversation.
But what is there to talk about with a stranger?
It's my turn to walk into the kitchen to get food. I'm losing control and I want to eat because I'm stressed. I eat chips by the handful so that I can avoid him more. My heart is beating out of my chest. I have so much adrenaline that the guilt from eating doesn't hit until Dad finishes the one beer and goes to the bathroom.
The slimy grease shit drops into my stomach all at once, bubbling under my skin. Since Dad isn't out of the bathroom, I rush behind the house to purge for the second time, no matter how much I don't want to.
I drag myself to bed after brushing my teeth, spitting out more blood than toothpaste foam. I gargle water to try and ease my aching gums and throat. It's relatively early for me to sleep, but I'm too tired to go do something. Dad tells me he has to put some finishing touches on whatever the surprise is. I stay up, just listening to make sure he isn't snorting shit.
But even Candace is quiet. In fact, she's been too quiet. She leaves her room a few times, going back and forth for shit. Nothing else, though. This could mean she's planning something, but I'm so focused on Dad that I just smoke until I feel calmer.
I draw the night sky on a loose piece of paper. Actually draw, not sketch or scribble. It's the first drawing in a while that's not a fucked up memory. It's neat and clean and colorful. I even substitute the neighborhood blacktop for an ocean.
I'm on the shore, gazing far at the horizon. At the last minute, I add an erasable outline of Dad. He doesn't deserve to be in the full picture yet, but I never leave a drawing unfinished.
If he stays on track with this whole thing, I might be able to convince him to get cleaned up.
I might be able to convince him to start over.
• • •
Theoretically, I'm supposed to start my life in four hours.
School wraps up in a nice little bow today, on a Tuesday. The graduation ceremony is next week from seven to nine PM. I'm not going, though. I just need to make it through the last of this shit.
I thought I'd feel different, with high school officially ending and all, but I don't. It's the same as always: me not giving a fuck while everyone else gets ready for the fucking future.
I'm smoking right outside the lunchroom. I know there's a teacher watching me, too. I can feel it. I dip my head lower and pretend to shuffle through my backpack, pulling out my sketchbook.
Some of my teachers stopped giving work last week, other than a final exam or project they were preparing us for. My last test was in Math a few days ago. They handed out report cards this morning in Homeroom. I've got high and low B's in everything, with the exception of a lone C in Math and an A in fucking Physics of all things.
After I finish the cig, I kick the filter into a cracked part of the concrete. I have no motivation to draw and I'm unsteady. I sink into the ground and put my head between my knees. Since I have my report card, I can leave. The rest of the day is for attendance's sake and for the staff to make lame goodbye speeches.
I took the bus here because I felt too sick to walk. The other kids ripped their brains from their skulls and threw them across the aisles. I wanted to die more than I do now, so I'm glad I'll never see any of them again. I don't have anyone I need to say have a nice life to. I can finally escape.
I run into the fucking road and stare ahead into the vast amount of space. So many possibilities and directions to take. I'm able to do anything I want.
My dad might actually talk to me today. I have no idea what he's planning, but I'm going to learn about him. He's going to learn about me and be proud of me and love me.
And maybe, after that, he'll stop guilt-tripping me enough to let me move on.
I can only hope that wherever he's taking me isn't food-related. I've gained a pound from giving into cravings and I want to stop before I gain anymore.
Glancing quickly around the living room, I discover the house is empty. I'm worried Dad's on another of his benders and start chastising myself. I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up.
I do something I haven't done in a long time: I watch Bob Ross. Like I expected, the magic is gone and it makes me depressed. I let the TV fade into the background as I sulk around the house. He's still not home by the time school actually lets out. It's enough for me to confirm I'm as fucking naive as I was as a kid. How fucking stupid can I be?
Lighting another cigarette, I head to the front patio...only to come face to face with my old man.
His hair is combed, his clothes are clean. No slurred words, dizzy walk, or bloody nose come from him. He just sounds a bit sick, probably from withdrawals.
My lips quivers. This means Dad's been sober for ten days.
Ten whole days.
"Are you ready to go, Tyler?" he asks, smiling.
I pause. He didn't tell me to shut up. He didn't call me boy.
He called me Tyler.
Nodding enthusiastically, I enter his car without protesting.
He isn't giving me any hints on where he's taking me. Anxiety tries to rise from the pit of my stomach, but I push it down. "Dad, where are we going?"
"Hold on - WATCH THE ROAD, YOU FUCKER!" He leans back into the seat and smiles playfully. "Stop trying to ruin the surprise."
Our conversation doesn't go anywhere, so I turn on the radio to feel less suffocated. Dad hears Stone Temple Pilots and goes, "Holy shit, I love this song."
"Like you have any idea what grunge is," I drawl. "What's the song called, then?"
"Dead and Bloated or something."
He's right, which brings up a more important question: Why does he listen to the same shit I do? That means it's automatically lame, no matter how new it is. I laugh a little. "You can keep your weird folk hippie music and let me handle the modern angst, okay? You're too old for this."
"Mhm. Do you know where are my Fleetwood Mac and Jimi Hendrix records went?"
"Uh..."
"Exactly." The car jolts. He hit the fucking parking space, but he gets out like he didn't just dent his car. He opens his arms and smiles wide. "You remember this place?"
The bright retro signs drip neon sap that curls around the building like halos. People giggle against a dreamy pastel backdrop, glitter falling from their lips. Sickeningly sweet ice cream flavors that makes someone rot from the inside out.
God, of course, I remember Thrifty's. Despite this being my worst fear, it's one of the few things from my childhood that still feels like magic. I haven't had ice cream in years. The best part is that it has the calories listed next to the flavor names. I know Dad's not getting anything and it'll just be weird if I don't, so I pick the one with the least amount of calories and skip the toppings.
He doesn't hesitate when we sit down. "So, where did you meet that girl of yours?"
Given the fact he and Alaska had one brief interaction while he was intoxicated, I'm surprised he even remembers her. At least he started the conversation this time. "During a concert of a random band. I was drunk and she was high and we made out. Even though we were wasted, we were comfortable around each other. She gave me her number, told me to call her. I said I wouldn't because she'd prolly hate me when she sobered up in the morning, but I got bored the next day and y'know, the rest is history. We went to The Poetry Hut for our first date because I wanted her to think I was deep."
I don't tell him how my heart beats each time I see her, how her voice and mind and touch is the most beautiful experience I've ever been through. He wouldn't understand. He's never been through that.
"Your mom and I met at a swap meet. The worst drug I did back then was weed," he answers.
"Like I believe that. You've been on all the white powders since I was a kid."
He lowers his voice. "You said you wanted to know about Gacy, right?"
"Yes," I say firmly, "because you literally turned fucking ninety degrees when you found out he'd been executed. I can't just act like that's normal."
He swallows like he has something stuck in his throat. His sentences are short and choppy. "Took you to a neighbor's kid's birthday party. You were two. There was a clown. Brought you up to meet him after he was done performing. You freaked out. Angie took you to the car. Clown stopped me, asked if I needed work. Said I'd be good for his car business, whatever. I declined 'cause I already had work. He got really pissed, tried to say he'd pay me well. Still, I didn't take it and we left. Some time later, saw the clown on the news. Gacy. Angie couldn't believe we'd brought you around that. He was in arm's reach of all the neighborhood boys and men, of you and me. The shtick he used on me was what he used on a lot of his victims. I looked a lot like them, fit the age range. There were so many. More than thirty. To think I was so close to that monster. If I'd said yes to his offer, that'd have been it. I got really paranoid, couldn't really get over it, and that's what started the drugs and shit. I thought it would calm me down and help me get over it since I did a lot of weed with Angie. It didn't and that's it."
The cone crunches between my fingers, fist quivering and throat constricting. "Dad," I croak. "What the fuck?"
"I remember Gio's parents going crazy about Richard Ramirez, but by then I cared about nothing except the drugs. They make me feel safer 'cause I'm not aware of anything when I'm on them. Besides, Ramirez was only active in California. Gacy was here. In front of me. I talked to him." He does that long stare, as if nothing is wrong, as if he hadn't just dropped a major bomb on me. He says calmly, "Your ice cream is melting all over your hand."
I slowly turn my head and watch the ice cream dribble down my palm, too shocked to clean it. Dad gets up and tosses napkins on the table. Almost dazed, I wipe my hand. It's an insane feeling. I hardly know Dad now, but there was a possibility I'd never know him at all. My mom was an addict in her own right. Despite the fact she tried to limit Dad's drug intake, she smoked and drank when she wanted to, but she was able to control herself and take care of me. If my dad was fucking murdered, what would she have done? Would she be just as horrible of an addict as he is, as neglectful as he is?
"Son, are you okay?"
"Mhm, are you?"
"Now that he's dead, I'm great." He grins. It seems almost genuine.
"Thanks for telling me, I guess. He was the reason you started taking drugs. You can go to rehab now."
Dad goes from being full of words to focusing on my ice cream. "I'm not gonna talk anymore until you eat that."
Something tells me that he knows I haven't been eating, but it doesn't concern him. Just like it doesn't concern Gio or Alaska. It's about me. Who cares if he knows? Who cares if he even has the slightest suspicion?
"I paid for it," he says. I gave him too much credit.
All I have to do is stop it from melting everywhere, not eat the whole thing. I'm not sure if it's the ice cream or the regret that makes my lips cold.
It wasn't anywhere close to winter, but the house was freezing. I didn't have enough blankets, so I was up late, shivering in my small bed.
I heard a voice that I didn't recognize. Dad came in and said he had a friend that would take me someplace warm.
We went into the living room and the first thing I said was, "Wow, Dad, he's even taller than you." I'd never seen anyone who was more than six feet at that point, but the man was a giant. He made a show of lifting up his hand and touching the ceiling.
It was my turn to perform. Dad spun me around so that the man could look at every part of me. The man knelt down and asked, "How old are you, kid?"
"I'm f-" I began, but Dad roughly covered my mouth and said I was eight. When it was obvious he wasn't letting go, I shook my head at the man and held up five fingers.
The man's face twisted into an unpleasant expression and I thought I'd angered him. He took out a large blanket and wrapped me in it. "Go back to bed. I need to talk to Daddy, okay?"
Happy that I'd gotten what I wanted without having to go anywhere, I did as he said.
I still couldn't sleep, though, because the man was yelling at Dad. "I don't take kids. You know I don't take kids. Where the hell's that wife of yours?"
"I would've offered her if she hadn't fucking left!"
Something crashed, a door slammed, and a car roared away.
Dad sat on my bed, breathing heavily. "Hey, son. Do you want some ice cream?"
"But who was-"
"Do you want some ice cream?" he repeated insistently.
"Yeah!" I said. He never let me have ice cream, just plants.
He drove me to Thrifty's and told me to stack as many of the weird flavors I wanted. I'd already almost forgotten the man when Dad said, "Hey, don't tell anybody about the guy that came over, alright? He...had the wrong house."
I smiled and nodded. The ice cream was all I cared about.
The next morning, Dad was a different person. I didn't know it at the time, but he was on meth. He was angrily screaming, telling me that if I'd had gone with the man, our lives would have been better. More accurately, his life would've been better. He would have more money if I was gone.
Even in a downtrodden culdesac, he was the sole addict. He dragged me to each house and tried to give me away to the other healthy, sober parents, framing it as "babysitting."
When none of them would take me, he looked me dead in the eye and told me I was the worst thing that ever happened to him.
"No one fucking wants you," he spat. He picked me up and carried me, as I cried, all the way to my grandparents' house. There, he shoved me into their arms without a goodbye. The man from the night before wasn't the last to yell at him.
I spent the next two months with my grandparents, the happiest I'd ever been. On a cloudy evening, a drunk Dad burst back into my life, with just as drunk Candace on his back. I ran into his arms because I thought he'd abandoned me like Mom had. He took me home, despite my grandparents trying to stop him.
Candace saw he was down on his luck and offered to help him in exchange for drugs.
Dad said she became extra willing to help when he told her he had a kid.
I jump from the table and can barely get the words out. "You...you tried to s-sell me!"
He's confused and attempts to have me explain, but I can't even look at him. I wait for him to get into the car. As I stare out the window, I say, "You tried to pawn me off for drugs when I was a kid and you took me here to keep me quiet."
"It...it was a mistake. That was before I met Candace."
"Just like the guy coming to our house was a 'mistake'? He just had the wrong house, right? And the real mistake you made was bringing Candace home. She didn't take care of me when you were gone. She came in every night and t-touched me."
He shakes his head. "And again with that she touched me shit. You were probably hallucinating."
"How would I hallucinate her coming in every night, let alone once? You never listened to me when I tried telling you anything."
"I'm listening now and I still think it's bullshit."
"You never paid attention to me. You'd only say - 'Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up.' Sometimes you hit me, too."
He looks up sharply. "I know I'm a shitty father, but I never hit you."
"You must've been on drugs."
"Is this your excuse for acting up as a kid? Pretending she fucking 'raped' you?"
"It wasn't an excuse, it was the truth. Is everyone like you? Do all kids go to their parents about abuse and get pushed away because they think they're lying?"
"No. Everyone just knows women don't molest kids. If I wasn't on drugs, I'd think you were."
"Now, that's bullshit. She took my innocence. She ruined me and you don't want to accept that. You want her to keep paying off all your drug debts and sucking up to you because that was the one thing Angie never fucking did."
After the car sputters to a halt, I start unlocking the front door.
After what he just said, I realize he won't change. There's nothing in him that's willing. He's comfortable living off food stamps, blowing any money he makes on his addiction, and forgetting I exist. Comfortable with the fact that I hate everything about him.
He comes up behind me, raising his hands. "Listen to me-"
I make a fast break to my room. "Where's Angie, Dad? She had to at least have told you where she went. I want to find her."
"She doesn't want to see you," Dad snarls.
"You don't know that. Where is she?"
"The morning after she left, she said she was in Denver and gave me an address, but told me never to contact her unless you died or something."
"Give it to me. I'm serious."
"If you let me explain why-"
"There's nothing you can do to make it up to me, or fix anything. You dug this hole yourself and you're going to lie in it yourself. I'm not going to wait around and watch you continue to self-destruct. I'm not going to keep worrying you'll never return when you leave or if you've overdosed somewhere. I'm done."
I cannot be fixed. I am broken. Bits and pieces of me are cracking off and becoming one with the house. Its history is what keeps it standing.
Accepting defeat, Dad hands me a crumpled paper with the address. The one thing of hers he didn't shred. I grab my box of CDs and shove clothes and my wallet into it. I won't need much where I'm going. I'll be driving, so I snatch a handful of fruit salad. I look back at my dad one last time, a pathetic shell of a man. "Bye, Victor."
Walking to the door, I make eye contact with Candace. She puts down her wine. "Dad finally kicking you out?" she sneers.
I laugh bitterly, a surge of bravery erupting from my stomach. "I can't believe I was ever fucking afraid of you."
I slam the door on my way out. If only I'd used enough strength to make everything fall.
I put Nirvana's Bleach into the CD player, letting the music wash over my as I drive. Further down the road, Gio has his thumb stuck out like a hitch hiker. I stop and pick him up. He's breathless, voice strained. "Before you say anything, my parents said I could either get out by the end of the week or go to a conversion camp. I don't know what to do."
"You're in luck. I'm leaving forever, going on a road trip. Wanna come?"
"Anything's better. What about Alaska?"
"I'm gonna ask her if she wants to come, too. It's worth a shot."
She answers when I ring her doorbell, with a smile so bright it could rival the sun. If there's something good coming out of this, I'm glad she's happy.
I ask what she's so ecstatic about because I have no energy to be happy. She says, "I finally stood up to my friends and now I have only a few, besides you guys, but I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I'm so free!"
"Well, you wanna actually be free? Gio and I are going on a road trip, one final adventure before we get serious, y'know? You up for it?"
"Is this being planned or an impulsive thing?"
"Impulsive with a capital I."
"I'm a girl - I can't just grab some clothes and go."
"Yes, you can. It's that simple. We'll wait for you."
"I still have to do some community service for my scholarship," she says. "It has to be sent in by June first."
"I'm sure we can find something along the way. You have, what, two weeks left?"
"My daddy won't let me do this."
"Standing up to your friends made you feel great. Maybe it's time you stood up to your dad. You can always make friends on the open road."
"But...he's my dad. I can't just defy him. Besides, it's the middle of the night." Her smile is gone, which makes me feel worse because I'm the one who made it disappear.
"Please excuse Tyler," Gio says. "His lack of a family makes him ignorant to our issues."
I light a cigarette. "Fuck off, Gio. Alaska, if you change your mind, we're heading to Denver."
"I need to think about it. I'm not impulsive. Dad will think we eloped." She leaves and Gio and I head back to the car.
After twenty minutes, she doesn't return, so I start up the car and drive away.
I see her in my side mirror a few minutes later, a small bag flying behind her in the thick summer breeze. I pull over and she tosses her bike to the back. "I told you I needed a sec."
"And I told you this was impulsive. Whatever, you get everything you need?"
She confirms. "I said I was going out to get milk."
Gio smiles. "Since we're parked..." He pulls out a six pack of beer. "Everybody take one."
"To new beginnings," Alaska toasts.
We clink bottles and I down mine in one go. I turn Kurt Cobain up to ear-bleeding levels, heading towards endless possibilities.