TWELVE
Seth
He pulleda sleek black car in front of the dormitory building, chains on the wheels leaving a pattern in the one inch of fresh snow that covered the street.
Damon hopped out wearing an elegant black coat and a brown silk scarf, walking around the car to open the door to the back for my duffel and the front door for me.
“And they say chivalry is dead,” I said, sitting into a warmed-up passenger seat and buckling my seat belt.
Damon walked around casually and hopped inside, strapping in before leaning close to me and kissing me on the lips. That was what husbands did, right? They greeted each other with kisses without even noticing they were doing it.
Fuck my life. We were as married as we could be without Nick committing a crime. He had gone home sulkily after I’d spilled a story about a ton of work I had to do at the lab. I tossed out some terminology that Nick couldn’t care less about, some science lingo that bored him, and he rolled his eyes, surrendering. “I get it,” he’d said. “But tell that to Mom and Dad when they leave an empty seat at the Christmas table.”
It would be a lie to say those words hadn’t hurt. What the hell was I doing, driving away with my hookup instead of joining my family for the holidays? Yet as Damon drove away,“Far from Any Road”playing from the speakers, I couldn’t get myself to feel any remorse.
“I love this song,” I said, dialing up the volume a little.
Damon shot me a glance full of warmth, like melting chocolate, before leaving the campus and driving down the street. “It’s a long drive,” he said. “And the snow’s falling just a little more than I was hoping.”
“You were hoping for a clear, sunny day,” I pointed out.
Damon nodded. “Yeah. So, tiny difference, eh?” His right hand fell into my lap, searching for my hand. I gave it to him without thinking. “I’m a good driver, though,” he assured me.
“I don’t doubt you.”
“That makes one of us,” he said. When he laughed, a little bit of that residual anxiety lifted.
The car was hot, and so was the coffee in Damon’s thermos. I was tasked with pouring cups of coffee for us and managing the snack flow as we drove north toward Clear Lake State Park. Not far from it was a private ranch with log cabins and a mix of rustic vibes and contemporary comforts.
Damon drove slowly, chatting about the trip to Chicago last week when the Titans played against the Steel Saints. “And you better believe they didn’t forget about last,” he said, bragging about the two years of victories.
“Wasn’t it the other way around for a few years before that?” I asked.
Damon shot me a killing glance. “We don’t speak about that.”
“Oh?” I bit my smile back.
“But Griffin and Andrei are now friends with the Saints’ captain and his boyfriend, apparently, so they betrayed us and built a bridge there. Traitors.”
“How dare they?” I cried.
“You get it,” Damon said proudly, then laughed.
Jeremy Messersmith’s“Love You to Piecescame on, and I sank a little lower in my seat. The particular brand of hopefulness and overwhelming melancholy of the song strangled me. We were creating an unforgettable memory with this trip. They would stay with me long after this thing flickered out of existence, as it eventually had to. I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking we’d keep doing this into our eighties and nineties, though it had crossed my mind. I imagined a porch with a little flower and herb garden, and two chairs, and a pitcher of iced tea, and Damon’s wrinkled hand covering mine on the table between us. And then I’d rushed into the bathroom to wash my face because the tears had unexpectedly flooded me.
No, that was never going to happen. But Clear Lake would happen in an hour or so, and I would have it for the rest of my life. I would have the scent of coffee and the sound of music and the warmth of the car and Damon’s wicked, rumbling laughter all to myself for the rest of time.
There weren’t many travelers on the road we took. Snow came and went in flurries, fields covered in an undisturbed blanket of whiteness, smoke rising from distant chimneys.
I looked at Damon, his profile sharp, his cheekbones high, and his lips defined like he was a marble statue come to life. His eyebrows were flat above his eyes, gaze focused on the road, face flushed with the heat inside the car. He was so devastatingly pretty that it physically hurt. I wondered if a good doctor could diagnose this pain. “He was beautiful, Doctor, and I looked at him for too long.”
My heart gave a quiet, aching throb, and I forced my gaze back to the road. We came around a bend, and Damon soon got off the highway. “Almost there,” he said. “I hope you brought your cards.”
“I sure did,” I said, warmth filling my chest maddeningly fast.
Music switched to Tom Odell’s“Another Love,” which felt a bit too on the nose, and I had to look out the window to blink away the sting in my eyes. “You have the same taste in music as my fifteen-year-old cousin. She also likes boys.”
Damon laughed out loud and dialed up the volume, singing along. “You can pretend you don’t like it,” he said after singing a verse. “But I saw you mouthing the lyrics three times already.”