Page 5 of So Thirsty

“Sloane?”

“Yeah?”

“Have fun.”

“Don’t I always?” I say, opening the car door and climbing inside. I set the present down on the passenger seat, put the heat on full blast, and give Joel a wave before driving off.

I steal a look in the rearview. At the house. At my beloved peach tree. At the shimmery snow-covered yard. At Joel. He remains in the driveway watching me, seeing me off in his puffy coat and aviator hat, and I think about how he leaves his dishes in the sink and his socks bunched up in the laundry basket, so I have to individually unbunch them or else they’ll never dry. I think about how he can be so condescending over such stupid, insignificant things, like my not knowing how to put more peppercorns in the grinder. I think about how he chastises me for not carrying cash and for avoiding the dentist. I think about how he lied about the first girl but didn’t deny the second. I think about whether staying with someone is really a choice, or if it’s a complete lack thereof.

I turn the corner and Joel disappears.

At the first red light I hit, I reach over to the passenger seat and shake the gift-wrapped box. Something shifts inside.

“Hmm.”

The light turns green, and I drive on, waiting for some excitement to set in. But all I feel is this kneading of dread. This impulse to turn around, go home. I don’t really desire my life, but I’m reluctant to leave it. There’s comfort in the mundane, safety in the routine. In waking up and knowing exactly what my day will look like.

I fear breaking my routine will break everything.

And I fear wanting too much out of this trip. I fear want in general. I made a promise to myself years ago to always temper my expectations, protect myself from disappointment. So this trip will just be miles on the car, a few nights in a picturesque cottage, some time with Naomi that will be good. That will be fine.

And then I’ll be a year older, and the peaches will fall from the tree, and I’ll avoid my reflection, put cream on my neck.

The tang of blood awakens me to my teeth’s nefarious inclination to gnaw on the delicate flesh inside my cheek. A violent nervous habit my body executes without permission. I never realize I’m doing it until it’s too late.

I swallow, and the blood drags down my throat. It seems thicker than it should be, and it leaves me uneasy. I swallow again. Again. I can’t undo the damage, can’t erase the flavor.

All I can do is shudder at the aftertaste.

3

I choose a back route, no highways, hoping for a scenic drive. The sun melted the ice, the snow, leaving the roads slushy. Everything drips; everything is wet, the snow-covered hills gone muddy and soft. I pass by antique malls and dilapidated barns and rusty tractors and the occasional cow. I pass through small towns with general stores and unsavory political signage. A lot of Christmas decorations are still up, strands of lights drooping, wreaths browning, nativity scenes missing wise men, Santas covered in muck. I pass by beautiful lake houses and wonder what the owners do for a living. Who can afford such houses? What decisions did they make? What mistakes did I make?

I sing along to “American Pie” because no one is around to judge me. I think about Buddy Holly dead in a field. The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens— who was only seventeen. I think about Patsy Cline, also killed in a plane crash. Before her death, she supposedly said, “Don’t worry about me, hoss. When it’s my time to go, it’s my time.” I wonder if she was able to maintain that attitude as the plane went down.

I hope so. It seems the cruelest fate, to die scared. But maybe that’s the only way.

I put on “Walkin’ After Midnight.” I wonder if I should start calling people “hoss.” If I could pull it off.

When I arrive in Auburn, I crack my window and inhale. Pure, crisp winter air. There’s music playing, big-band jazz. There’s a quaint Main Street with a movie theater that has a classic marquee, and an ice-cream shop, a bar called the Pharmacy, a pharmacy called the Drug Store, some retail shops that I know must be overpriced, gouging tourists like me. There’s a Chase bank, which shatters the illusion of the old-fashioned, the 1950s “aw, gee, shucks,” “take a nickel to the soda fountain for a cherry-lime rickey,” “call your sweetheart on a rotary phone,” “listen to a transistor radio,” meat-loaf-and-mashed-potatoes Americana.

At a traffic light, I make a right onto a tree-lined street. Grand Victorian houses are spaced evenly, set back on clean lawns—all with hibernating gardens and ornate birdbaths or fountains, each with its long driveway neatly plowed. Any remnants of snow are white, unsullied. Again I wonder, Who lives in these houses? How do they have this kind of money, living out here? What do they do?

This place is a postcard, a fantasy. A profound trepidation materializes in my chest, spreading quickly to my limbs, giving me pins and needles. I shudder and close my window. The GPS advises that I make a left in four hundred feet. All I can think about is going home.

But it’s too late for that, and there’s a car coming up behind me, so I go ahead and take the left.

The road winds down a wooded hill, and through the skeletal trees I get glimpses of the lake glittering beneath the rapidly setting sun. The main building reveals itself at the bottom of the slope—a titanic stone mansion with an elaborate porch, countless arched windows, tall chimneys. The whole structure is swathed in thick vines, which contribute significantly to its air of Gothic romance. Aptly named the Waterfront, it seems to rest precariously on the edge of the lake, at least from this vantage point. I pull around the circular drive and park in front of what I assume to be the entrance. There’s an awning—an extension of the porch.

By the time I open my car door, there’s a porter, a boy who might be fresh out of high school or college—I can’t tell. He wears a ridiculous old-timey uniform. He must hate it.

“Hello, ma’am,” he says. Ugh. Ma’am. “Checking in?”

“Hey. Yes,” I say. “Okay to park here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Again with the “ma’am.”

I follow him inside to the lobby, a two-story foyer with a grand staircase, dark walls, gilded molding. There’s a marble counter to the side, and another adolescent appears behind it, a bony girl in a similarly old-fashioned getup. She bounces upon seeing me, smiles widely, revealing gapped teeth encased in plastic aligners.