Left Drowning

“Theoretically. I guess we think of Chris as the head of the household.” We turn a corner and hear a box in the back slide across the truck bed.

“Your father must love that.”

“Chris is just much better at handling things. He researched safety and performance and then informed us what we were getting.” Eric points ahead. “Hey, is this part of your regular ru

“Yeah, it is.”

“Show me your route and we’ll map it out. See how far you’re going.”

“Why? So I can tell everyone that I run a whopping one and a half miles? Besides, everyone is waiting for us so they can help unload Estelle’s stuff.”

“They can wait a few more minutes. C’mon. You should know. And now I want to know.”

“Okay, well, I usually come out of campus there.” I motion to the now snow-topped iron gate by one of the dorms. “And then I go all the way down Stanton Street toward the river and head left.”

I watch as Eric resets the odometer to zero. ”Here we go!”

“So Chris is an interesting guy, huh? What with making car assignments and whatnot.” I brace my elbow against the window frame and lean my head into my hand.

Eric glances my way briefly, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Smooth. Is there something going on between you two?”

I clear my throat. “No.”

“Oh,” he says, shifting gears. “We all thought maybe—”

“Nope,” I say, cutting him off. I think about seeing Chris half naked, and the way he pi

“We were hoping it was something more.”

I blink a few times and watch the snow. “Maybe I was, too.”

“Sorry,” Eric says. “So much for Chris settling down.”

“He gets around a lot?”

Eric laughs. “Not like Sabin, but he has a past. He’s not one for long-term girlfriends, although I keep hoping. If he’d just slow down a bit… . But Chris is always racing to get to the next thing. The next class, the next project, the next step after graduation, all that sort of stuff.”

“Ha! I’m stuck in the past; he’s stuck in the future. End of story. What about you?”

“Maybe I’m a here-and-now kind of guy; I have no idea.”

“Well, you seem to like Zach a lot. He’s the here and now. Plus, he’s wicked cute.”

“He is wicked cute, isn’t he?” Eric pauses. “Wicked. Are you from Boston?”

“Not right in Boston, but about a half hour out.” I wiggle into the seat. The truck may have a few miles on it, but it’s comfortable as hell. “You moved around a lot, right?”

“We’re products of about seven different states, I think. I’ve lost count, but we lived all over New England, and spent some time in the Midwest. We may even have been near Boston when I was a baby. Not sure. Spent a summer in Texas when I was little. I remember parts of that.”

“So where do you feel like you’re from?”

“Nowhere. We’re from nowhere.”

“You can’t be from nowhere. Where did you live before you came to college? Where does your dad live now? Oh, turn left here.”

“Truthfully, Blythe.” Eric turns by the river. “Our father is not a good guy. We don’t see him, and we don’t talk about him. Wherever he lives is certainly not our home. It’s easier like this.”

I stare at Eric as he drives, realizing that Sabin told me something similar—although with Sabin, I’d assumed he was being dramatic. I reach out my hand and touch his arm. “I’m sorry.”

He nods. “Me, too. But I’ve got Estelle, Sabin, and Chris. And I have Zach, who I’m crazy about and who tolerates my insane family.”

“Make a right onto Hoover Ave., and then bear left and head back to campus up Webber Road. We’ll have to double-park outside Reber Hall.”

We ride without talking for a bit. The drive is peaceful, the hum of the motor and the bounce of the truck comforting. Finally Eric speaks. “We don’t even go home for Thanksgiving. We never go home.”

I draw a terrible cartoon of a turkey on the wet window. “Neither am I this year.”

“Good,” Eric says. “Then we get you for the holiday. There’s nothing better than a dorm Thanksgiving. We’ll have a good time.”

“Okay,” I agree. “That’s very nice of you.”

I continue to direct Eric where to drive until we come to a stop outside my dorm. I almost wish that he would keep driving. Anywhere.

Eric looks toward the steering wheel. “So how far do you think you run?”

“No clue. I mean, I’m slow as shit, but I just run like an idiot until I can’t anymore. And I always end up walking part of it, too much of it, even though I hate myself for it. Oh God, is it shorter than I thought? I’m terrible at judging distance.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Tell me, tell me. I can take it.”

“Five point three miles.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

He laughs. “Five. Point. Three. Miles. That’s pretty damn good.”

“Oh my God, seriously?” I am shocked. And giddy. I had no idea. “It’s not like it’s a marathon, but still… . That’s not bad, huh?”

“It’s not bad at all. You should be proud. I don’t think I could run a quarter of a mile. Good for you!” Eric opens the door. “Stay with the truck, would you, in case anyone needs to move theirs or something? I’ll start unloading.”

I bite my lip. Holy shit. Two months of ru

A thump on the side of the truck startles me out of my thoughts. I roll down my window. “Hi, Sabin.”

“What’s happenin’, the cakest of all my baby cakes?” Sabin’s messy hair blows in the light wind. His leather biker jacket is unzipped, and he has on only a thin white V-necked T-shirt under it. A pair of faded red cargo shorts show off legs that are stuck sockless into unlaced hiking boots.

“Aren’t you freezing? It’s snowing, you nut!” I lean out the window and wrap my scarf around his neck.

“Awww! You care! But I’m all good, sweets. This is not cold, kid. Negative fifty with the windchill is cold. Today is refreshing. You on truck duty?”

“Yup. You didn’t see Eric? He already started taking stuff inside.”

“Okay. Stand guard for any suspicious-looking fellows passing by. Oh! Like this guy! Blythe, help me!” Sabin runs off, zigzagging wildly up and down the road as Chris approaches, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Chris tucks his hands into his jeans and peers into the window. “Hi.”

“Hi, back.” We haven’t spoken in weeks, and I feel like an asshole just sitting in his car like this.

“Sorry about Sabin. As usual.” Before he can say anything else, Sabin tackles him in a bear hug.

“Oh, thank God, it’s just my dear brother. I thought you were an obsessed fan. Or a zombie.” Sabin kisses Chris on the cheek, noisily and sloppily, and then grabs something of Estelle’s from the truck bed. “So, Blythe? Where, pray tell, would you like this?”

I crane my head out the window. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a two-foot-by-three-foot oil painting of Jesus.” Sabin holds the atrocity out to his side as if it were a top prize on a game show. “A stu

“That is some ugly crazy shit.” Chris closes his eyes.

“Oh fuck,” I say. “Seriously? Is this for real?”

“Estelle makes interesting artistic choices. Regretting your decision yet?”