My heart skipped a beat. Bile rose in my throat. The air grew thick. I leaned against the driver’s door as far away as possible and raised my hands to protect my face. Through my fingers, I saw a figure lean into the car and look at me. C.J.’s voice came to me as he asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I thought you were…” I tried unsuccessfully to swallow again. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Good thing we have diapers here. Want one?” He pointed at the recent purchase on the front seat.

  My body relaxed as I shook my head. All I wanted was my car back. I didn’t want to steal from the guy, no matter the bad things he did. He had a kid at home—and an angry wife—so he needed the diapers. I had never smoked, not unless you count that time I was thirteen, took a puff, and about vomited. I waved my hand at the pile of goods. “Take them out and put them in the parking space.”

  C.J. did as instructed and settled into the passenger seat. As he closed his door, he chuckled. “Can you imagine his face when he comes back and finds the car gone and diapers waiting?”

  I laughed, more nervousness than hilarity, though I could see the humor. The poor guy was going to find his car gone and only diapers marking the spot. I almost felt sorry for him. Not enough to get caught, though.

  I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and turned the key. The car sputtered and complained, but it started. Glancing repeatedly into the rearview mirror, I reversed out of the space and headed for the back exit. My mind continued to race with images of him coming around the corner, guns blazing as he chased us down, but he never appeared. We were soon following Wyatt as we twisted and turned through the neighborhood streets. Red-and-blue marker signs indicated Interstate 40 was just ahead.

  Finally able to relax, I turned to C.J. beside me. “What are you doing in here? You thought I was crazy for taking my car instead of calling the cops.”

  “I do think you’re crazy. Certifiable. Off the insanity charts. Totally, completely, cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs insane.”

  “Why get in the car with me?”

  C.J. shrugged. “As nutty as you are, I’ve still got your back. Always have and always will.”

  It made sense. I would’ve done the same for him. As we turned onto the interstate on-ramp, C.J. said, “Maybe we’re like those lady movie characters. You know, Thelma and Louise, off on an adventure.”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “You remember how that movie ended, right?”

  17

  My hands were still shaking as I guided my reclaimed car down the interstate on-ramp behind Wyatt. My sweat-soaked shirt clung to my body. With a last glance into the rearview mirror to confirm we weren’t being followed—not that I knew what I would’ve done if we had been—I merged into the flow of traffic heading east on the interstate. With the relative anonymity of the crowd of cars—though my car didn’t hide very well among them—I took a deep breath to calm my nerves.

  Instead of the surrounding scent of car exhaust I expected, I smelled melted cheese. My mouth watered as the aroma expanded to include pepperoni. “Mmmmm—something smells good.”

  C.J. stopped mopping his brow with a handkerchief, sniffed the air, and twisted his body to peer behind us. The worry fell from his red face and was replaced by a giant grin. He reached into the back seat and retrieved a large flat box with a cartoonish drawing showing a man spinning pizza dough. He settled the box in his lap and lifted the lid. The smells assaulted us, and my stomach rumbled in response. C.J. turned to me and clucked his tongue. “We forgot to give him back his pizza.”

  Between the stress of the morning and the absurdity of a purloined lunch, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the tattooed man’s misfortune. C.J. smiled at me, and soon we both roared with laughter, releasing the tension of stealing my own car back. I pounded the steering wheel, sucking in gasps of air between cackles. C.J. held his sides as he howled. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a woman dressed in church clothes staring at us as though we’d escaped from a mental institution. We made quite the sight—two old country men driving a clunker of a car while chortling uncontrollably.

  “Poor guy. Bet he has fun explaining all this to his wife.”

  “Can you imagine? Walking home with diapers in one hand, cigarettes in the other. No car. No lunch. I almost feel sorry for him.” C.J. picked up a slice and bit into it. “Ooooh. It’s a meat lover’s special too. My favorite.”

  “Your doctor will not approve. For your own health, you better let me take care of it.”

  C.J.’s muffled reply came through his full mouth. “I take my cholesterol meds.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s your last count say? When did you last take your blood pressure?”

  “No comment.” C.J. tore the lid in half to create a plate for me and handed over a slice. “Besides, you promised to buy me lunch. I think you got off cheap.”

  Hungry from our adventure and the late hour for lunch, we made quick work of the large pizza. By the time we passed the town of Newport—Knoxville far behind us and mountains rising into view—the food was devoured. C.J. belched, sending us into another fit of relieved laughter. He cleaned up the debris and tossed the empty box onto the back seat.

  “If only he had been kind enough to leave us some dessert,” he said as he twisted his girth in his seat so he could peer into the back. He unbuckled his seat belt and swept his long arms along the floorboards. When he hit something, he stopped with a puzzled look on his face. He grunted as he contorted his body and brought forward from the rear a shoebox that had been tucked under the driver’s seat. “What do we have here?”

  With a glance, I dismissed it quickly. “Never seen it, so it must be his. Hope it’s more food because I’m still hungry.”

  C.J. flipped the lid off and peeled open the foil inside the box. With a grunt of satisfaction, he announced, “Some kind of chocolate dessert. Maybe a sheet cake or brownies.”

  He selected one and handed it to me. While he was taking a second one for himself, I bit into it and started chewing. Shelby’s baked goods were always moist and creamy, melting in your mouth so you barely had to chew. My mother’s cakes and treats were the same. A church potluck offered oodles of delicious sweets.

  This was nothing like that. The chocolate square was far too dry, crumbling in my mouth. There was a hint of sweetness in the chocolate, but a strange spice had been used that gave the whole thing a weird bitterness.

  I chewed it up and swallowed. I ran my tongue across my teeth and wished I had a bottle of water. “No wonder he went to get pizza. Someone can’t cook. They taste funny.”

  C.J. didn’t seem impressed either. He was staring at the food in his hands as his jaws worked to break it up. He sniffed the treat, shrugged, and took a second bite. Through a full mouth, he said, “They smell weird too.”

  I inhaled deeply, bring the spicy scent into my nose. He was right. “Maybe they’re old and went bad sitting in the car.”

  “He’s only had the car for a day. Why would he put old brownies under the seat?” C.J. held the treat up in the air. “Maybe they’re yours and have been here for ages?”

  “When have you ever seen me bake? I don’t think that oven has been on since Shelby lived at home.” I couldn’t help myself and took another bite.

  With a flourish, C.J. popped the last of the morsel in his mouth. “Not great, but at least it’s something sweet.”

  “Barely.” I finished off the last of my dessert even though I didn’t care for it that much. C.J. was right about it being a little sweet, and that tasted good after the pizza.

  “Want another?”

  “Pass.”

  C.J. shrugged and wolfed down a second and then a third before wrapping the foil closed and slipping on the lid. He turned and placed the box on the back seat.

  Curious what else the tattooed man might have put in my car, I asked, “Anything else back there?”

  C.J. swept his hand under both seats before turning his attention back to the road in front of us. “Nope. That’s it.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping he had a couple of ice-cold Mountain Dews or some beer in an ice chest to get this taste out of my mouth. Those things were awful.”

  “Pretty inconsiderate of him not to leave drinks for us.” C.J. snickered.

  I didn’t really think it was that funny, but I giggled anyway. The morning had been stressful, and everything seemed funny.

  The farther we drove into the mountains, the more eager I was to return home. Poor Belle had been closed up in the house for a long time. As a younger dog, she would never make a mess in the house, but that had become more challenging for her as she aged. I understood because I had to get up in the middle of the night to pee more often than not.

  An image of Belle and me peeing together made me giggle again, but an uneasy feeling grew in my gut. My stomach tightened, and my bowels protested. Sweat broke out across my forehead. I felt light-headed and a touch dizzy. I craved something to drink. My mouth had dried up, and I couldn’t produce enough saliva to swallow.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched C.J. mop his brow over and over. His cheeks were flushed, and he adjusted the air-conditioning vents to blow directly into his face. His pupils were even dilated despite the bright, sunny day.

  Despite how ill I was feeling, I developed a weird hankering for a snack. Visions of potato chips danced in my head. I tried to shoo the thoughts away and realized my fingers and toes tingled. Even my nose had grown numb. My voice sounded far away as I said, “Those brownies must’ve been bad. I’m not feeling so great.”

  C.J. grunted agreement but then chuckled. His voice reverberated in my ears. “I feel like I’m floating. Everything is blurry and weird.”

  We rounded a sharp curve and passed the Welcome to North Carolina sign. “I think I’m going to stop at the visitor center. We can get a drink out of the vending machines to settle our stomachs.”

  “And a snack. I can’t believe I’m hungry again.” C.J. stared out the window at the passing trees and the deepening river gorge running beside the highway. “Bet that guy didn’t stop at the rest area after stealing your car.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know, no rest area for the wicked.”

  I groaned at C.J.’s bad joke but couldn’t resist his infectious snickering. It wasn’t that funny, but I couldn’t stop myself. I giggled. The high-pitched sound startled me and made me giggle again. Between bursts, I managed to say, “No drinks for the thirsty either. Our car thief was not a great host.”

  C.J. roared with laughter, and the sound boomed in the car. “That wife of his probably already had the drinks in their fridge.” He held up both hands as if he was holding soda bottles and spoke in a falsetto voice. “I have our drinks. Where’s the pizza, Bubba?”

  It wasn’t funny, but I couldn’t stop. I loosed a hearty laugh. A tear rolled down my face. “Bubba? You think he’s a Bubba?”

  C.J. slapped his hands against his own jiggling sides as though he was trying to contain himself, but his mirth only grew. His voice was high-pitched as he wheezed. “Only to hide his real name from his thieving buddies. It’s probably something proper like Maurice or Clarence.”

  “Clarence!” I screamed and slapped the dashboard with my hand. “Where’s the pizza, Clarence? At least you remembered the cigarettes, Clarence.”

  “And the diapers, Clarence.” C.J. wiped a hand across his face, sweeping away the streams of water rolling from his eyes.

  “Stop it.” I squirmed in my seat. “You’re going to make me pee myself.”

  That sent us both into hysterics. The more we tried to stop, the harder we laughed. Tears filled my eyes, and I could barely see the twisting interstate in front of me.

  When the rest area sign finally loomed into view, I flashed my headlights to get Wyatt’s attention and pointed to the exit ramp. As we neared it, I said, “No wickeds allowed.” We doubled over with more laughter, though I didn’t have a clue why it was so funny. We followed Wyatt’s car into the lot, both of us laughing and poking each other on the shoulders.

  Wyatt parked at the far end of the lot, well away from the crowds of tourists. He got out of his car, looked at us, and approached slowly. He stood beside the driver’s door, waiting, and then rapped on the driver’s window. Somehow, I had forgotten to open it for him. They sent us into another fit of giggles. Struggling to concentrate, I cranked down the window. “Sorry, sir, but we’re all out of pizza. Drive-through is closed.”

  Confusion spread on Wyatt’s face. C.J. guffawed. I leaned my head on the steering wheel, my body convulsing in merriment. I finally heard Wyatt’s voice asking over and over, “Pizza? When did you get pizza?”

  C.J. caught his breath first and sputtered, “The valet left it for us as a tip.”

  I hooted and managed to say, “Valets get tips. They don’t give them.”

  “Well, this one even leaves little chocolates on the pillows.” C.J. grabbed the shoebox from the back seat and held it up in the air.

  Wyatt snatched the box from C.J.’s hands, opened the lid, and sniffed. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “Oh my God. You two are high as kites.”

  We spasmed with hilarity, but the way he said it got through to me. I had heard him use that phrase too many times. I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself, and managed to spit out a question. “What are you talking about?”

  “These aren’t regular brownies, you idiots. They’re laced with marijuana.”

  That stunned us into silence. We looked at Wyatt’s serious face as he held the box out in front of him. I turned to face C.J. and saw his wide eyes. I felt the grin spreading on my face and couldn’t stop it. C.J.’s eyes twinkled with merriment, and his smile joined mine. We began chanting in singsong voices. “We’re in trouble. We’re in trouble. We’re in trouble.”

  Wyatt closed the lid of the box, marched to a distant trash can, and buried it in the trash. He came back, leaned in the window, and told us to stay put. He said he was going to find some coffee or sodas or anything with caffeine. Then he warned us not to move one inch until he came back.

  We both sat up straight and froze our bodies. That lasted for about five seconds until we started giggling again.

  Wyatt walked toward the vending area, glancing over his shoulder at us and shaking his head.

  18

  Summer vacationers streamed through the rest area. Some stopped only briefly, long enough to run into the restrooms and grab snacks from the vending area. Others came out of the building clutching brightly colored brochures touting tourist attractions. A few walked their dogs through the grass and wandered to the fence at the edge of the field, a breathtaking view of the Pigeon River crashing through the gorge far below. None, however, paid more than passing attention to us.

  If they did notice us, they probably laughed at the role reversal. C.J. and I sat on the top of a picnic table in the shade of a shelter. A pair of cold soft drink bottles rested between us, glistening with condensation. We sipped the liquid, hoping the caffeine would bring us down from our high. Wyatt stood in front of us, his arms crossed and a stern look on his face. I could sense his foot tapping as he tried to decide what to do with us, like a parent with a pair of misbehaving boys.

  “You two feeling normal yet?”

  We exchanged glances and shrugged. I still felt light-headed and foggy, but I attempted to show my steadiness by staring confidently at Wyatt. The bright sun, though, hurt my eyes and I had to squint. Behind him, the air above the asphalt shimmered in the summer heat. Or, at least, I hoped it was caused by the heat and not some drug-induced illusion. “We’re as normal as ever.”

  C.J. chuckled and mumbled under his breath, “Not that that’s particularly normal.”

  I fought off the threat of giggles at his insolence. He’d had three brownies to my one, but he was also twice as big as me. I wasn’t sure which of us was more affected.

  Wyatt said, “I’m trying to figure out if you’re sober enough to drive.”

  I pointed at the parking stripes on the pavement. “Want me to walk that line, occifer?”

  C.J. turned away to focus on a distant tree and bit his lip. I could feel his sides quivering as his arm brushed against mine. Wyatt glared at me and said, “Your eyes are still bloodshot.”

  I tried to be serious and inventoried my body. The sweating had stopped, the dizziness had faded, and my hunger had abated after a couple bags of potato chips and a pack of crackers, but I couldn’t deny I was still feeling off. We needed to give it more time for the effects to fade.

  Wyatt glanced at his watch again and nervously shifted his feet, his impatience obvious. His sense of duty wouldn’t let him leave, but neither of us were accustomed to this much time together. In a single day, we had shared more than we had in the last month. We were able to live together precisely because we had separate schedules and a big house for space.

  I asked, “You have plans tonight, don’t you?”

  He avoided my eyes. “Nothing important. It can wait.”

  I guessed, “A date?”

  He shrugged.

  “Someone special?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know yet. First date.”

  He couldn’t miss that, and certainly not because of my foolishness. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

  He stood his ground and crossed his arms. I needed to give him more of a reason to leave. “If you go, you can do me a favor.”

  He cocked his head and looked at me. “What?” His tone still held his exasperation.

  “C.J. and I need to sit here longer, I agree, but poor Belle is still locked up in that house. You can let her into the yard and then make your date.”

  Wyatt turned his head to the interstate crowded with summer vacationers. “It would be better if I stayed. The road through here is challenging, and with the traffic and your condition…”

 

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