Higgins laughed. “After all this, you think I’d miss it?”
Rodney emerged from the house with an armful of soda cans, and we crawled into the cab. He fired up the engine—its diesel rumble was comforting—and drove through the gate. In the side-view mirror, I watched Higgins disappear as we turned onto Lake Mead Boulevard and drove out of sight.
Traffic on the 15 did suck, and it took us ninety minutes just to reach Primm. I spent the time on my laptop going over the schedule. We were supposed to load in at three p.m., and if Waze was right, we were barely going to make it. Our tech run-through was tonight, full dress was tomorrow, and the show went live Wednesday night—just over forty-eight hours away. The last eight days had passed at a crawl, but now I was free-falling, gaining speed, the ground rushing up to meet me.
An hour after we crossed the California state line, I heard the ding of a new text message and began frantically searching the back seat for my phone. It was Ripley. It had to be. He had finally responded.
Only he hadn’t. The message was from Liam.
Liam: Everything work out ok?
Me: Yes.
I paused with my thumb over the Send arrow. Then, somewhat reluctantly, I added:
Me: Thank you.
Liam: I have a confession.
Me: Okay.
The little dots bounced, then stopped. Bounced, then stopped.
If heaven and hell exist, then purgatory is filled with those little dots.
Liam: I did the truck thing so you would forgive me.
The ghost of a smile turned up the corner of my mouth, then evaporated.
Me: I have a confession too
Liam: What?
I blew out a breath. I often felt like words erupted from my mouth without my consent; now it was happening with my thumbs.
Me: I asked you to do the truck thing because I knew you wanted forgiveness.
Me: Do you think I’m manipulative?
Liam: Maybe. But I probably deserve it.
Liam: Do you forgive me?
I typed a few words, then deleted them. Let him suffer the bouncing dots for a minute, see how he liked it.
Me: I want to.
I waited for two solid minutes, but he didn’t reply. Maybe someone had called him. Maybe his phone had died.
Maybe he’d written me off.
Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t sent that last message. The first time I’d made myself vulnerable to him, I had been more or less stable. If he took advantage of me while I was on my way down, I wasn’t sure I could recover.
Traffic came to a dead halt just south of Baker, and I started to worry that we were going to miss the rehearsal. I thought of calling Grace to tell her we’d been delayed—but I was terrified that she would tell Flynn and he would drop us from the show. It was an irrational fear, but reason didn’t have much sway when I was on the downslope.
By the time we made a pit stop in Barstow, we were two hours behind schedule, and I had bitten my nails to the quick. Dad took forever in the bathroom at the Taco Bell; I was about to ask Rodney to check on him when he finally emerged, looking seasick.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Not sure breakfast agreed with me,” he said, grimacing.
Two hours later, when we finally merged onto the westbound 210 freeway, I took a deep breath and called Grace.
“Grace Wu, how can I help you?” She said it rapidly and with no inflection. In the background, I heard clanking metal and loud voices.
“Hi, Grace. It’s Ellie Dante.”
“Where are you?”
The tension in her voice was contagious, and I felt my shoulders tighten.
“We hit a snag with our equipment,” I said. “We’re an hour away.”
“You’re going to be late for load-in.”
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t overreact. I had to stay calm.
“Head straight to the Dolby,” she said. “We’ll make it work.”
As we shot past the 57 freeway, I saw a billboard for Park Hills Hyundai and realized I was passing within a few miles of Ripley’s house. I took a photo of the sign and texted it to him—maybe my proximity would move him. Then I shoved my phone back into my bag and stared out the window.
It was five p.m. when we finally arrived. We were two hours late, so Rodney let us out while he backed the truck up to the loading dock. My bottom lip was raw from nervous chewing, my legs and neck stiff from seven hours on the road. Dad looked even older than