Carly
A week later, the outskirts of Unforgiven whiz by the truck’s window. Good-bye.
The clinic called; no STDs. Turns out, what I worried about most now seems like nothing.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Nana takes her eyes off the road. “Nothing’s better than home when you’re hurting.”
Of course, she’s referring to my breakup with Austin. I don’t have what it takes to tell her the rest. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I’ll find the courage for that out on the road. I’d better, or this baby will, eventually. We’re flying down the highway. Who knew this truck could do seventy-five? “Go, Fartito,” I say under my breath.
“What?” She looks over at me and two wheels drop off the edge of the road.
“Nana!” I grab the wheel and push left. Fartito swerves into the oncoming lane.
The eighteen-wheeler bearing down on us blasts his air horn.
“Gimmie that.” Nana snatches the wheel and we cross the double yellow into our lane again. “Been driving since I was thigh-high to a gnat’s ass. I don’t need no help. You jest sit there and think about what you’re running from, missy.”
Like I’ve thought of anything else. I close my eyes and try to relax. They say you have fewer injuries on impact that way. It would be my luck to get killed going to pick up what Nana calls my “murder-cycle.”
“I know you’re having a rough patch. But running never fixed nothing.”
I snatched this chance out of the air like a horny toad with a fly. Cora booked a flight to her daughter’s in Oregon for three weeks. It’s all set. I’m going. “I’m not running, Nana. I’m not even getting a vacation. I’ll be working the whole time.” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. Not that this trip will change anything, but I can use a break from familiar faces and prying eyes.
Nana’s snort tells me she’s not buying it.
Floyd’s comes up on our left. Nana slows for the turn, enough so two wheels don’t leave the ground. But it’s a near thing.
Floyd reclines in a lawn chair in front of his showroom, squinting into the sun. His eyes widen when the truck slides to a stop six inches from his fancy boots. Dust billows up, obscuring him, but I can hear him coughing. “Holy NASCAR, Carly, what in tarnation—”
“Don’t you ‘holy’ me, Floyd Hendricks!” Nana yells out the open window. “I knew your momma when she was sneakin’ shine in her tea ’til she was puttin’ your diapers on crossways.”
“Miz Nana.” Floyd emerges from the dust cloud, coughs into his fist, and steps to the driver’s door. “I didn’t know it was you. Could I offer you some cool water on this hot day?”
She opens the door and takes the long step down. “Buzz off, Slick. I gotta say good-bye to my Carly.”
Floyd holds up his hands and backs away.
I open the door, slide out, and walk to the truck bed where my leather jacket, helmet, and duffel sit waiting. I lift them out, smiling at the black helmet with the gaudy pink hibiscus on the side. Lorelei surprised me with it last night. I’m the one who should’ve gotten her a present; she’ll be holding down the fort at the diner.
Leaving Austin tugs at my heart.
Homesick sours my stomach.
Hurry, the road whispers in my ear.
Nana stands, bat-wing arms outstretched, her stray hairs waving me good-bye.
I step into her arms and hug her tight. “Now, Nana, don’t go all drama-queen on me. It’s only a three-hour ride.” I pull in the smell of the only mother I’ve ever known, and hold it in my lungs.
I feel her chest hitch. She’s got to be thinking about my mom and dad’s last ride. I pat her back to soothe, but I’m tired of ghosts. “I gotta go, Nana.”
“All right, baby girl, but don’t you forget.” She steps back, grabs my chin, and looks me fiercely in the eye.
I’m only half-listening. The motorcycle is calling me. “What?”
“You’re a Beauchamp. And Beauchamp women are tougher’n cowhide.” Eyes glistening, she waves me off. “I gotta get to Bingo. It’s a twofer matinee, and I’m gonna kick that bitch Betty Jones’s ass.” She spins on her heel and climbs into the truck.
I pick up my stuff and stride for the garage, hearing the spray of gravel and the squeal of rubber when Nana hits the tarmac. I half want to run and wave her down.
Floyd is waiting for me, arms crossed, beaming like the mailman just delivered his “Cupcake of the Year” calendar. “I had ’em wash it up all pretty for you, and the first tank of gas is on me.”
I set down my stuff. My bike reclines on its stand like Mae West on a fainting couch. A sunbeam from the high windows caresses it, fanning the cool blue flames on the tank. Something lighter than air fills my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I’m really going to do this.
“I’m really sorry about Austin, Carly.” He studies his boots. “Sincerely I am.”
I throw my arms around him and lay a big ol’ kiss on his slab of a cheek. “I don’t care what Nana says. You’re the best, Floyd.” I step back before he can get his arms loose.
“You’ll be careful, right? If you end up roadkill, your Papaw is gonna come hunting my ass, and he’s as good a shot as he is a moonshiner.”
“You never miss a good chance to shut up, do you, Floyd?” I put up a hand. “Thank you. Really. Now go away, willya?”
He walks away, and I carry my stuff to the bike. Fear and excitement put a fine shake in my hands as I set the duffel on the passenger seat, and bungee it to the sissy bar. I shrug into my dad’s butter-color suede leather jacket. I grabbed it from the closet this morning, figuring if I’m borrowing his dream, the jacket comes with it. It’s too hot to wear, but the thought of my skin grating on asphalt rips an icy shudder down my spine. Heat, I can live with.
I throw my leg over and settle, liking how the seat cups my butt. I don my pretty helmet, thread the strap, and snug it up. Then I pull the bike upright and sit a few heartbeats, trying to absorb the moment.
In a very real way, I’m going home, and I can’t wait. The excitement of the rodeo crowd, the smell of cotton candy, feeling a part of something bigger, taking a small part in the history of the American West. It’s something I know, inside and out. Maybe I’ll manage to settle there, to lose the off-footedness I’ve felt lately. Maybe by slipping back into the rodeo circuit, I’ll find my way back to who I am.
Regardless, it feels good doing something instead of hunkering down in Unforgiven, waiting for the sky to fall. When I return, who knows how I’ll be different. Adventures change you. The one to Albuquerque sure did. So do babies.
As of now, I’m responsible one hundred percent for my own safety. My own life.
Plus one.
I’m not even capable of making good decisions for myself. How could I be responsible for another? But I’m not going to solve the Rubik’s Cube of my future, sitting here. I turn the key, pull in the clutch, and hit the starter. The engine roars to life, pulsing pure power between my thighs.
I spend the first hour of the trip white-knuckled terrified. I remember how to shift, and lean, but there was no traffic on the dirt back roads where Austin taught me to ride. I block out the picture of my instructor’s green eyes. Maybe someday I’ll learn to block the memory before the shiv slips between my ribs.
I pull over for gas at the edge of Albuquerque. I haven’t been here since that weekend. I shoot a look around at the patrons of the crowded gas station. The odds of seeing Brett…No, that’s not his real name. I looked it up online, and there’s not a Brett Cummings who resides in New Mexico. What would I do if I did see him? My whole body flushes like how Nana describes one of her hot flashes.
I’d stalk over, slap his face. No. I’d pull him aside, tell him “I’m pregnant,” and ask what he was going to do about it. Oh, who am I kidding? I’d probably run to the bathroom, hide, and throw up. I’m not the bold, brassy Beauchamp woman I used to be. My confidence is shaken, and my self-esteem is whimpering in a corner. I throw my leg over and pull off my helmet.
The lady on the other side of the pump who’s filling her truck gives me a thumbs-up. “You go, girl.”
I just smile. At least I look badass on the outside.
Five miles later, I’m all alone on a straight road that leads through brush-covered plains. The sun warms my cold fingers. The fringe of my dad’s jacket is playing in the wind. Scents come to me: sage, and dust, and clean, high desert air. I suck it in, and the sense of doom that’s dogged me the past weeks recedes. Thank God for Cora. This is just what I’ve needed.
I let the wind blow all thoughts out of my head and relax in the moment. If only I could live cocooned in the Right Now. My lips stretch into my first smile in what seems forever.
Way too soon, but two hours later, a road sign for Comb’s Corners flashes by. I take the exit and roll to a stop at the old-fashioned town square, with the stone county courthouse in the center. The lawn is covered in swap-meet sun shades that shelter tables of artwork and crafts. Brightly clad people swarm, lending a festival feel.
The food truck is parked on the street opposite me; Cora’s arm is waving out the window. I ease into the crawling parade of traffic around the square, keeping my feet down to stay upright. I tuck in front of the truck, grateful for the bike; God knows where I’d park a car.
I’ve just dismounted and pulled off my helmet when Cora is there, enveloping me in a huge hug. “Thank God you arrived safely.” She backs up enough to see my face but doesn’t let go. “How are you?”
“This second? Great.” The relief of having someone who knows still love me hits me so hard it weakens my knees. I soak up her hug. I hadn’t realized how much I needed one. “It’s second to second, lately.”
“Are you feeling all right? Have you told anyone?” she whispers.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
With one last squeeze, she lets me go. “Well, you’re here now. Come meet Nevada. I’ve just got time to show you the ropes. Uber is picking me up in an hour for the airport.”
She takes my hand and leads me to the truck. It’s red, with CORA’S CATERING in orange on the side. The long serving window is open and propped, providing shade. Baked goods, chips, and cookies crowd the tilted shelf; the serving counter is above it. I see the thin back of the cook at the grill, and the message on her T-Shirt: OMG—NO ONE CARES.
“Nice shirt.”
Cora darts a look at me. “Well, I did tell you she was unconventional.”
“I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”
Cora cuts through the waiting line of customers, opens the rear door, and takes the two steps up. “She’s here!” Her voice is fakey-happy. “Nevada Sweet, meet Carly Beauchamp. Carly, this is Nevada, the best cook in my fleet.”
The blonde turns, wielding a spatula like it’s a weapon. She’s shorter than me, and slightly built with a boyish figure, wearing a grease-spattered half apron over blue jeans. She’s still young, but has the tough, skin-over-bones face of a long-term barfly. Nana would say she looked like she’d been “rode hard and put up wet.” But it’s the animosity blazing from her blue eyes that brings me up short. She looks me up, then down. “Yeah.” And turns back to flip the burgers. She lifts a can with holes in the top and sprinkles something over the meat.
“What’s in the can?” I say, just to be polite.
“You a cook?” She doesn’t look up.
“I used to be.”
“Then it’s none of your business, now, is it?”
“Nevada.” The word spirals up at the end, in a warning. Cora pushes past me. “Carly, why don’t you help me get caught up with the line, then I’ll show you what you need to know.”
I’m stepping past when a snort of dismissal comes from behind, too soft for Cora to hear.
Lovely. Any delusions I harbored that this was going to be a relaxing three weeks fly out the serving window.
An hour later, a compact pulls up. The driver beeps the horn and waves.
“That’s my ride. I’ve got to git.” Cora unties her apron.” Carly, text me or call me with any questions, okay? Nevada”—she waits until the girl turns—“you behave. You hear?”
The cook flicks me a look and her nostrils flare, like she smells something off. “Yes’m.” She steps into Cora’s hug. “You have fun. Hurry back.”
Cora bustles past and snatches her purse and suitcase waiting at the back door. “I’m going to love me some grandkids.” She bustles down the steps, and the driver comes to help her with the suitcase.
I close the door and walk back to the serving window.
“Oh, this is going to be a certifiable riot,” Nevada grumbles behind me.
Now there’s something I can agree with. I pick up the order pad, pull the pen from behind my ear, and address the frazzled mommy who’s next in line. “Can I help you, ma’am?”