in the evening sun, and it illuminated the latest color of her hair—bright blond—which had been styled into a cut much shorter than when I last saw her. She wore a short sundress that could’ve been confused for a camisole, and as she stood in the sun, she tugged down on the edge of the dress, trying to pull it lower, as though the purpose of the outfit was more important than her comfort in wearing it. She looked at her sandals for a second, then sort of glanced up at the sky in a curious way. She straightened her posture and slowly smoothed out her sundress with the palm of her hand and I could see her chest rise with a deep breath. I slithered down in my seat as I watched. And as she let out that breath, it appeared she exhaled all of her intentions along with it; her shoulders deflated just like her lungs. She looked over her shoulder at the front door of the school with an it’s-not-too-late reticence.
Whatever held her back eventually set her free. She made her way to a Honda Civic parked three spots behind me, tugging on the hem of her dress the entire walk. I slid even farther down, as far as possible while still maintaining sight of her car in my side-view mirror.
I let her pull out of her parking place and drive some distance before starting my car and casually catching up, keeping a few cars between us.
We ended up driving for a decent duration. She made her way to Route 62 and started heading east, tracing the journey I’d just completed, in reverse. The last thing I wanted was more time cramped in the cab of my Mustang, but sitting and waiting for her return didn’t really make sense; my need was to make sure she was okay, and watching her walk in and out of her apartment wouldn’t fill the requirement. I needed to see her live.
After twenty minutes or so, I began praying her destination was Versailles, but the town served as nothing more than a place to change directions, shifting from Route 62 to Route 60, pointing us both in the direction of Lexington.
You would think after all the years of casually watching federal agents staked out on our perimeters, I might have picked up some minor techniques for tailing someone, but I proved to be a lousy student. I found it quite a challenge to keep Melody’s car in view while remaining far enough behind that I wasn’t in waving distance every time she looked in her rearview mirror. Worse, I hadn’t planned well: I was down to a single cigarette and not a drop of fluid to quench my burgeoning thirst.
And then came another unexpected turn. On the outskirts of Versailles, Melody pulled into a Chevron station, parked in front of one of the pumps in the middle of three aisles. Once we were on the road, here was something I’d not considered: stopping. I drifted into the parking lot of the neighboring Arby’s and watched her get out of her car and walk into the convenience store of the gas station—except it was more of a nervous jog. Though the air that day was very warm and moist, she moved at a pace more reserved for days with wind chills.
I sat in my car, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and staring at her Civic. A strange pull came upon me and I felt a gulp in my throat I could not swallow down. Before I could make sense of my actions, I threw the car in gear and slowly made my way to the Chevron, slithered around the lines of gas pumps until I’d positioned myself the perfect angle and distance from Melody’s car. I got out and played with my gas cap a little—the most I could really do since I’d filled my tank outside Lawrenceburg just before finding Melody’s address. I fiddled with the pump for a moment before the knot in my stomach and the lump in my throat returned and the drug of adrenaline began flooding my veins again. I watched the door of the convenience store, and without understanding the implication of my amateurish bravado, I was getting closer to it with every step.
I opened the door, hit sideways by a stench of stale coffee and onions, greeted with a nod from the clerk behind the counter, a scrawny guy who sported a thinning