You are running late to catch the bus to the train to the plane trying to get to your boyfriend who thinks you’re The One but wants to make sure you’ll start to exercise more first, eat less, and somehow you think getting lost is because you are fat and now you’ve missed the last train and are stranded, worry slicing your head as you try to balance your luggage and backpack and fears and how fucking disappointing you are to yourself but if you hurry, you could still make it and he will only be mad for a short burst that you are late, yet again, that you made him wait yet again.
You lost, a man says. It’s not a question. He’s been watching you.
You tell him you’re just trying to get to the airport, but you’ve taken the wrong train. You went the wrong way. Your instincts are wrong.
I’ll take you, he says.
Your body quiets in a strange relief, grateful for a kind stranger, too anxious to still make it on time. You can make it. You can get on that flight, return to your boyfriend, prove that you are not who he thinks you are— lazy and silent and soft.
Get in, the man says.
When you sit in his truck, you wonder about the tarp covering the seats. He must have noticed your eyes wandering because he says, construction work.
He smiles, foot hovering on the gas.
That suppresses your concerns enough to ignore how your skin sticks to the plastic, how it keeps you stuck in place. Luggage at your feet and lap, you’re pressed close to the passenger door as he makes small talk. Sleepy street lamps bleed past you.
Maybe you could take a bus, he says, showing you the empty station. It’s closed, though, he says without stopping.
You can get out here, you think, and reach for some cash to hand over.
He insists it’s not safe. His house isn’t far away. You can rest there, he says. Catch a flight in the morning. He’ll drive you to make sure you make it on time. A nice nap, he says more to himself than to you. It’ll be good for you. His eyes stay on the dark ahead.
You say all of the other words for no. Your body stays rigid against the door. He drives further. You’re on the freeway now. You wonder how much it would hurt if you tuck and roll out of a moving car. How fast could you possibly be going? It’s so late, the roads so clear. Would you take your bags along with you, or leave them? What would hurt worse? What if he came back to find you on the roadside, upset that you tried to leave him? Your palms slick with dread.
Thank you, you say instead.
He takes an exit you try to singe into memory. Here’s a great school for you to raise the kids, he says. There’s where I want to start my business, he says. You wouldn’t have to work, he says.
The truck slows. You are on a tree-lined street, a suburb that could be peaceful. Wait here, he says and kills the engine.
You don’t move. You worry he’ll see the glow of your phone and get angry. Instead, you watch him walk around the back. He returns and grabs your bags.
Thank you, you say again.
In this house, you sit with a dancer’s posture on the edge of an armchair, upholstered in ugly flowers. The curtains peak open into the oceanic street outside.
Be right back, he says.
He returns minutes or seconds or hours later with a bag. You imagine what’s in it: rope and tape and tools or snacks and hot sauce and soda.
In one version, you see headlights coming down the inky street, desert throat, vibrating hands, as you bolt out the door, waving spaghetti arms, screeching out I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. You get on a flight in the morning, mind ballooning with what an idiot you are, a fucking moron, a stupid piece of shit, this mantra playing until your boyfriend, the one who says he loves you, picks you up because he’s feeling generous that day and now all you can think about is how exhausting it is to calculate how much you now owe him. You could have been murdered, he laughs at the idea. What were you thinking? You say, I’m sorry, you say, It won’t happen again, you say, Thank you, you say, I’m so sorry, but it comes out in a vaporous whisper, curling smaller into itself until it disappears.
In another version, you eat the chips, sip the soda.
In another, you will never be able to sleep with the lights off or the bedroom unlocked without springing up slick with sweat, wondering where you are.