on you. Should the marshal have surprised me last night, the last thing I’d have wanted him to shake out of my jacket was a traditional weapon.
I try to capitalize on her doubt. “Hop in,” I say, and smile a little, try to suggest that everything is going to be okay, except I’m thinking, C’mon-c’mon-c’mon-get-in-the-friggin’-car-let’s-go.
She bites her lip again, looks over her shoulder, makes one last attempt to find that fence upon which to perch herself, hoping to size up the other option and what it might have to offer. But she exhales long and hard, like she’s uncertain as to the quality of either product. Then, without seeing her hand, I hear the latch of the passenger door quietly click as she opens it. And though she’s still looking over her shoulder, I’m hoping it’s because she wants to make sure we can make a clean getaway.
She slides down onto the passenger seat slowly, wiggles her lower body into place like she’s trying to slip into a pair of tight pants. She reaches over and gently closes the door, rolls her shoulders and rubs her bare arms.
“I’m not really dressed for riding with the top down.” She turns to look at me. “I mean, you’re wearing a sweater and a jacket.”
Her words are phrased in such a way that she is not asking me to put the top back up. Maybe she thinks having the top down will preserve the possibility of being seen and rescued by the feds. Or maybe she just wants to feel the freedom of riding out in the open, of feeling the wind whip around her, of not being protected.
“Wait,” I say, reaching behind her seat and nodding toward the bridge-tunnel, “I crossed over that monster last night, picked up some clothes for you. I figured you weren’t going to have much.” I hand her a shopping bag—three more are in the trunk—and she peeks inside before she accepts it.
I know I need to get us away from this motel—the urgency is still buried in my gut—but with her by my side, I am foolishly pulled from concern, feel like I am adrift on the water like a castaway. Melody gently places the bag in her lap, turns to me and stares.
She’s the first woman to corner me like this, to make me feel like I need to fill the gap in silence. “I hope these are your style.” How do you like that clever gift of conversation? She says nothing, glances in the bag again. “I was guessing you were maybe a size six?” Yes, nicely played—especially if it turns out she’s now smaller than a six and I’ve implied she’s heavier. Apparently, I do not have the magnetism that Sean has, am missing the gravity that might bring a kiss to my cheek.
She looks inside the bag as though a dead fish were at the bottom, does not pull anything out. “You… bought me clothes?”
Happy to have her in the conversation, I quickly respond with a flood of useless information: “Yeah, Norfolk’s right on the other side, maybe an hour or so from here. I did a little power-shopping last night. For you, I mean. To get you clothes. And stuff.”
She widens the opening of the bag, and as she studies its contents, she does that thing: She reaches up and runs her fingers around the edge of her hairline, as though trying to tuck imaginary hair behind her ears—the hair was there hours ago, so recently removed it must feel like a phantom limb—and it looks like she’s doing nothing more than tracing the outline of her ears. I hate that there is nothing for her to tuck; I fear she may one day stop doing it. I find her delicate motion a selfish, if not guilty, pleasure.
And with that, she slowly reaches in, selects the dark green sweater, stares at it for what feels like a time longer than if she’d seen it in the store herself. Then she brings it to her face, closes her eyes, rubs it against her cheek and inhales a breath of cotton.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the torrent of action over the last couple days, maybe it’s my fear of Melody being hurt or my narrow capacity to prevent it, but somehow emotion slips inside me, possesses my body like a demon. We should be long gone, but I can’t take my eyes off of her, can’t move. I’m staring to the