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When I leave the bakery, I call Bo, who is monosyllabic and a little bit scary. I think I woke him up. It’s not important.
Then I’m not sure where to go. I could walk to the police station, but what would I do there? West said to stay away. I want to do what I said I would, but I can’t stand this. I don’t know what it looks like where he is. I’ve seen a lot of cop shows, just like Bridget. I’ve read detective stories. All I can imagine is West in an impersonal room being interrogated by the blond cop. West being urged to name names.
West with that smart-ass mouth of his, saying the wrong thing. Getting himself in deeper trouble.
But then I think of Frankie, and I know I’ve got it wrong. There’s only so far he would go for Krishna, only so much he’ll give up.
He’ll be on a plane. This afternoon, tomorrow, the day after—nothing will stop him from going.
I wish I didn’t know that about him. I wish I weren’t so sure of him, so unshakable in my conviction that he’ll do exactly what he thinks is right, always.
I wish the right thing could be the thing that I want, but it’s not, and that leaves me here. Worried about West. Stuck with myself, alone, on the verge of tears because he’s going to go and I’m going to stay and I love him.
It’s not fair.
It’s just not.
I walk a few blocks to the police station and sit on the steps outside. No one’s around this early. Only the occasional car putters through the cold morning. It’s spring break as of tomorrow, but Iowa is stuck in winter, freezing and thawing only to freeze again.
I hate this place today. I hate Oregon, too—the ocean, the buttes I’ve never seen. I hate trailer parks. I hate West’s mom for being such a failure, for loving a man who doesn’t deserve to be loved and taking the man I love away from me.
So much hatred. But my hate doesn?
?t feel poisonous or toxic. It feels true, inevitable. I have to hate these things, because here they are, parked in the middle of my life. A giant metal box of Impossible, seams sealed, and when I kick it, it echoes. When I knock, no one answers.
Hating it is the only option I have.
I’m still sitting there on the steps an hour later when Nate’s friend Josh walks out of the station and pauses to light a cigarette.
“Caroline,” he says when he sees me. He’s inhaled, and he chokes on the smoke and takes a while to recover his voice. “Jeez. ”
He doesn’t ask, What are you doing here?
He knows why I’m here.
Long-haired, loose-limbed, floppy Josh. I thought he was my friend. I thought he liked me.
He ratted out West.
“Is Nate in there?” I ask.
“What? No. ”
“So it was just you snitching on him. ”
He looks like I’ve smacked him in the forehead with a mallet. Totally unprepared for this conversation.
I stand up for the sole purpose of taking advantage of his surprise. Thinking of my dad in his office—the way he rises to pace when he wants to take a position of power over me—I even put myself a step above Josh. Why shouldn’t I use whatever advantages I have?
Why shouldn’t I prosecute? Haven’t I earned the right by now?
“What did he ever do to you?” I ask. “What did I ever do, for that matter, to make you hate me so much? I don’t get it. I need you to explain it. ”
“Nothing. I mean, I don’t hate you. ”
“You turned him in. ”
“No, I didn’t, I swear. I—”
