to his parents’ house, where he was staying the weekend, but what he really needed was a place where the memories couldn’t find him. Did such a place exist?
He found himself at the familiar crossroads. Go straight and wind up at his parents’, or turn left and go downtown, maybe find a bar and a bit of company. He could always turn around, go back to the party and just crash at Shelby’s, which probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. Or he could turn right. Three roads offered safety, comfort, and hope. The fourth? Nothing but despair.
Drawn by some unseen force, he turned right. One foot followed the other down a lonely road—the road that used to lead to Greg’s house. Leaving the street lights behind, Jerome squinted into the darkness, barely making out the shapes of trees. The wind, quiet until now, played a mournful tune through the topmost branches, and a light drizzle began to fall. Jerome looked back over his shoulder. The rain didn’t reach the well-lit intersection, just this road. Were the fates trying to turn him back?
Cool mist brushed his face but he wouldn’t be deterred. Next, the heavens sent fog, thick and heavy, nearly blinding. He followed the white line at the edge of the road, the only thing visible in the gloom. The sound of an engine gearing down caused him to turn, jumping away from the asphalt in case the driver couldn’t see him. How odd that in the black of night there were no headlights shining. The motor revved, closer this time. The mist parted and the shadowy shape of a sports car appeared.
A fist clenched Jerome’s heart and he shook his head, willing himself sober. It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t! The car purred like some sleek, black predator waiting for him to run so it could give chase. The passenger door swung open.
A joke. That’s what it had to be. A cruel, sick joke.
Jerome stared at the door for what felt like an eternity. The rain fell harder. When it began to trickle under his collar, curiosity got the better of him. One slow step at a time he approached, gazing into the darkened interior. Just like outside the vehicle, inside there were no lights, not even on the instrument panel. When he placed his hand on the car’s canvas top, a jolt traveled up his arm, and he swore the damned thing leaned into his touch.
No words were said, none were needed. The invitation was clear. He sucked in a cool, deep breath and exhaled slowly, fogged breath mingling with the chilly mist. He stooped and slid into the car. The door closed without his help. The Mustang accelerated, barely crawling down a side road. Something swung from the rearview mirror. Even without seeing it clearly Jerome knew it was the tassel from a graduation cap. There was no other explanation; he must be hallucinating. How much had he drunk?
When the car came to a full stop, Jerome spoke. This was their spot, where they’d come every Saturday night throughout high school to make out, and where they’d spent their last night together. “I’d like to see you.” The instrument lights began to glow, creating a surreal landscape of shadows and light on the driver’s face. Dear Lord. There was no way it could be who it looked like. Could there?
A husky, well-remembered voice drawled, “How have you been?”
Jerome leaned back in the seat, dragging one hand through his already disheveled hair. He exhaled a shaky breath. That’s it! I’ve lost my mind completely. “Oh, you know. Same ‘ole, same ‘ole,” he said as calmly as he could. I will not freak out, I will not freak out…
“Nice costume.”
“How can you…”
“I can see you.”
Heart thundering in his chest, Jerome replied, “But I still can’t see you very well.” It’s just a dream, just a dream. It can’t be real!
The visor lights came on and Jerome’s heart skipped a beat. The man sitting behind the wheel had dark brown hair and light green eyes. Smeared makeup covered his face. A grin would reveal a chipped front tooth, and his long thin nose was slightly crooked from an impact with a baseball in sixth grade. Sadly, Jerome had been the one to hit that ball.
Tall and lanky, Greg probably wasn’t most folks’ idea of handsome. To Jerome he was perfection. Or had been. “You! How?” Jerome pulled back when a finger approached his lips, half expecting it to pass through.