“What’s in St. Louis?” I asked, trying to distract him, trying to stall.
“My dad.”
That surprised me. Finn was going to stop and see his dad. The only things he’d mentioned about his dad were related to math—the childhood promptings, the fact that his parents divorced when he was seventeen.
“He’s head of the math department at Washington University.”
“I see. Well, maybe I could go to St. Louis too.” I had a sudden inspiration and hurried to share it. “I could call Bear, and he could overnight my things—my driver’s license and my credit cards—to your dad’s address. Then I won’t . . . need you . . . anymore. You can go your way and I’ll go mine. That’s an idea!” An idea that sounded very reasonable to me.
Finn sighed and sat down on the little table positioned in front of the large window that looked out onto a parking lot adorned with two very large dumpsters. He shook his head and leaned forward, holding my gaze.
“You have to call her, Bonnie. If you don’t, I’m calling the police. And you’re going to sit beside me and tell them every damn thing that’s gone down. Your choice.”
“That’s not much of a choice, Clyde.” I meant to sound flip, but the words stuck in my throat. I lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. The texture looked like oatmeal laid on thick and painted in white sparkle. I had the urge to jump up and down on the bed so I could reach it, so I could grab giant handfuls of the texture and fling it around the room. I wondered if our $50 deposit would cover it.
“I can’t talk to her, Finn,” I whispered. “I can’t do it yet.”
Clyde sighed and swore, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the crusty ceiling, willing him to let me be, just for now.
“Here’s what I’m going to do, Bonnie Rae. I’m going to take a shower. And when I get out, I’m calling the police. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll let you decide what you want to do.” He shoved up from the table, grabbed his duffle, and went into the closet-sized bathroom and shut the door. The shower started up a few minutes later.
Funny. Clyde said he would let me decide what I wanted to do.
So I decided.
But it wasn’t at all what I wanted.
I shot up from the bed and grabbed the keys to the Blazer. Clyde had left them next to the TV—dropped them like everybody does when they walk into a motel room. His wallet was beside the keys, along with his phone, like he’d emptied out his pockets when he’d set down his bags.
I took his phone too. Then I counted out $2000 and laid it out next to his wallet, so he couldn’t miss it. I’d given him half of the money I had left. The motel had provided three sheets of stationary and a pen with the motel chain on it, as if people still sat and wrote long letters to their loved ones back home. Still, I was glad it was there, because I had a letter to write, and very little time to do it.
Meet me in St. Louis, Louis, Meet me at the fair. The words to the old song tripped through my brain. My high school had done the musical, Meet Me in St. Louis, the fall of my sophomore year. I’d tried out for the part played by Judy Garland and had every song memorized a week after auditions. I’d gotten the part but never ended up being in the play. Jackie Jacobson had ended up taking my place. The Nashville Forever audition had been the same day as opening night, so I’d had to back out. I put down my pen and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. I was back on the interstate, reading road signs as I listened to Blake Shelton do his thing, hoping that Indianapolis was easy to find. I flipped down the radio and greeted my friend, Clyde.
“Bonnie Rae, turn around and get your ass back here with my Blazer.”
“I’m driving to St. Louis, Finn. I left you some money. You can rent a car and meet me there. Or . . . you can call the cops if you want to, but I think it might be a little hard to explain everything when I’m not there to back you up. They might think you have me tied up somewhere.”
The anger coming through the phone was palpable, and I winced and rushed ahead when he didn’t speak.
“I’m calling Bear. I’ll tell him to straighten things out with the police. Okay? I’m going to have him overnight me the things I need, just like I told you. But he needs an address to send them to, Clyde. Can you tell me where your dad lives? I’ll meet you there, with the Blazer. I’ll hand it over, get my things and be on my way. Deal?” My voice squeaked at the end, undermining my tough girl play.
Finn hung up on me.
I kept on driving, both hands on the wheel, holding on to the Blazer like it was my only friend in the world—a stolen best friend. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon but I felt like I’d been up for days, the pressures of the last 36 hours creating a time warp where time felt stretched and surreal, like I’d lived it all before and would live it again, over and over until I got it right. Whatever “right” was. “Right” felt like a very relative word at this point. Since the moment I’d walked off the stage in Boston, I couldn’t think of one single thing I could have done differently. Finn Clyde was certainly wishing he’d let me fall into the Mystic River at this point. But me? I didn’t feel like I’d had much choice in the matter.
I didn’t die on the bridge. Finn Clyde saved me, and then he kissed me. And I had to keep moving, because the minute I stopped, the momentum that kiss had given me, and the life that kiss had breathed into me, would be snuffed out like everything else. What Finn couldn’t understand was if I called Gran and turned my life back over to her, I might as well just find another bridge.