Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“No one’s hitting on me, Pete.”
“Everyone hits on you. You’re just oblivious and thick as mud with the sense of humor of a toad. You wouldn’t know if a guy was throwing himself at you if he literally threw himself at you.”
“Dude, I’ll give you her number.”
“I don’t want it anymore, it’s not about the stupid number.” Pete lifts his head off of the wheel and flings his eyes my way. “Do you know the last thing Cody said, six years ago, before the bomb? He said he’d drop dead before he returned to this shithole town.”
“But he’s married now. He’s happy. What’s the problem?”
“I stopped calling. I stopped writing back. I just … stopped.”
“Why?”
“Do you know how difficult this is for me?” His voice hardens. “Half the reason I’m even here is because you talked me into this.”
“Wait, me?”
“Yeah, Bridge, you. You said I needed to do this, that it’d do me good. Hell of a lot of good it’s doing. Think I’m getting ulcers.” He drops his eyes to the dash. “Tank’s almost empty. My fault, burning all our gas and killing the planet, circling these roads.”
“You mean squaring them.” He doesn’t laugh. I really need to give it up with the jokes. “Pete … if you really don’t wanna do this, we can turn around right now. Get another night at that hotel. Maybe second time’s the charm, that chick might warm up to you. Cody waited all these years to see you. What’s one more night?”
He shrugs my hand off with a huff. “There you go, giving me a way out, enabling my cowardice. I’m not a baby.” He swipes at the turn signal again, switching it to the right, then stamps on the gas pedal, and I guess that’s his way of saying he’s gonna go through with this come hell or high water. I don’t care if he blames me for it or holds a grudge. The grudge won’t last. He needs to do this.
And I suppose I have nowhere else better to be.
Our final stop, barely three minutes from our destination, is a depressing gas station wasting away in this neglected countryside, painted in faded oranges and browns. A tall sign protrudes in front of it with its logo half peeled off, looking like it’s endured a dozen tornados in its long life and still stands proud, though I’m not sure “proud” is the right word. There’s not a soul in sight when we pull up to one of the only two spots at the pump. Falling off the edge of what I’ll reluctantly call a parking lot is a beaten-up truck, likely belonging to the poor clerk sentenced to work at this dump.
“Fill her up,” grunts Pete, “while I go get myself some big boy courage juice and a sandwich.”
I look at him. “From here? Are you that desperate to ingest a tapeworm?”
“Good point. I’ll powernap.” He cranks back his seat all the way, grabs his hat off the dash to cover his face, then leans back and crosses his arms tightly over his chest.
I guess it’s best to leave well enough alone. Pete has a basket full of anxieties he’s working through in his own weird way, and there’s only so much I can do for him. Maybe he’s right and I’ve forced him here to face his savior Cody for reasons I didn’t even realize until now. He’ll thank me when it’s over.
I leave Sleeping Beauty in the driver’s seat and step out of the car. The humidity swallows me whole, so I take Pete’s advice and shed my jacket, tossing it back into the car. My skin is still hot and sticky as I take a step in the gravel, shoes crunching, and stare at the 19th century contraption I think is supposed to be a gas pump and realize there’s no touchscreen or card reader. I’ve never seen this kind of pump in my life and don’t even know where to begin. After fiddling with it for a minute, I shoot a quick “Gotta run in” to Pete in the window, who mumbles something I don’t understand because I don’t speak half-baked gibberish, then head toward the rundown building and brave its creaky door.
Inside is a one-aisle supply of random roadside munchies, a buzzing fridge with a mismatched assortment of beverages inside, and a freezer stuffed with packaged ice cream treats, one of which has a happy face on the front, but it melted and refroze into a demented smirk, one eye drooped. A wet floor sign is propped up in front of a rack of gum, but I don’t see what’s wet to warrant it.
I’m still figuring out the wet floor sign when a ball of paper smacks the side of my head. I flinch, lift a hand, and catch the crumpled wad unintentionally.