“Hey Mom,” I said. “Can I borrow the car?”
She shifted to look at me, her sad, watery eyes fixed on mine. “You haven’t been driving.”
I shrugged. “I know. That’s kind of why I thought I would.”
She didn’t talk for a beat and I wondered what she was thinking. Was she suspicious of me, like Dad? Did she think I was going to do something that would make her even more ashamed? What would she do if she knew I was?
She walked over to the table in the foyer. I trailed behind her. She fished the car keys from her purse and handed them to me. When I reached to take them, her hand closed around mine. She didn’t say anything, but she smiled a tiny smile and held me there for a few seconds. Then she let go.
When I sat down behind the wheel of the car, I felt my throat tighten, my pulse quicken. The last time I’d been the driver of a car, it had ended badly. I tried not to think of that, but I could hear Dad griping in my head and just like in real life, his voice was too commanding to ignore.
“I don’t know why you want to drive,” he grumbled as he slid into the passenger seat. I turned on the radio, but as soon as the bubbly, cheerful pop started to flow from the speakers, he reached over and turned the music off.
“Because everyone drives,” I argued, not knowing what else to say. “It’s just a rite of passage; you get to a certain age; you get a license. You get a license, you drive.”
“Seems to me like there’s nowhere you need to go that your mom can’t drive you to. If she can’t drive you, you probably shouldn’t be going.”
It took everything I had to stifle the urge to slam my face into the steering wheel. He wanted to track where I was going all the time. That’s what his weird question was about. Keeping me from driving was just another way to try to make sure that the gayness wouldn’t seep into our Huntington lives, that I wouldn’t implode our life all over again. My hands gripped the wheel, but my palms were sweaty, and I had a vision of the wheel slipping sharply, turning because my hands were too slippery to control my grip. Blinking was my first instinct, but as my vision clouded even more, it struck me that I was just making things worse. Even as I tried to pull myself together, Dad kept on, a constant, deep drone in my ear that seemed to make the rest of the world blur into a speckled gray haze.
“I mean, that’s what this is about, right, Lennox? You want to be able to take yourself places where your mom and I can’t keep tabs on you. You want to keep living this life of sin even though we had to uproot our whole life because of you.”
And just like that, I couldn’t feel my lips. It was like they weren’t even on my face anymore. Just gone. Around the perimeter of my mouth, my skin felt like bees flapping their wings and buzzing, but inside the perimeter, nothing. I yanked the car off the road and threw open the door. My breath came in gulps and when Mom called out to me, asking if I was okay, it sounded like I was underwater.
The vomit came in a wave that crested first in my throat, bubbling up and out in a splash against the ground. With the back of my hand, I wiped the acid from the corners of my mouth. I walked over to the car but let myself into the backseat. My dad shook his head before walking around to the driver’s side, sliding into the seat and adjusting the mirror.
It was just another failure in his eyes and we both knew it; he was thinking: look, Lennox can’t even manage to drive two miles on the highway, but she wants her license? What he didn’t ask himself is why he bullied me into vomiting by the side of the road or why he never asked me if I was okay. I’m his only daughter, but it didn’t even occur to him to utter a single word of comfort. It hit me then that there had been all this time spent over the course of all our lives trying to figure out whether I’m the right kind of girl, but Dad never thinks to ask himself what it means to be a man.
Pulling myself back into reality, I started the car. With one last glance in the mirror overhead, I checked my face and realized that somewhere in this flashback through time, I had started crying.
Great, I thought. Just what I need. I’m going to show up to sweep the girl of my dreams off her feet with a puffy face and red bags under my eyes. Irresistible.
I was able to stop crying long enough to safely make my way down eighth street, which was probably the most hectic part of the drive. It seemed like people were either back to work or still sleeping off holiday celebrations because the city was quiet. I could even change lanes without shaking because the other cars were so far behind me there was no danger I would get side-swiped. In less than ten minutes, I was at Pullman Square pulling into a parking spot across from the pottery store.
With a quick glance in the mirror, I mentally prepared myself for the big moment. I was still puffy, but only a little, and if she was even close to as nervous as I was, she wouldn’t even notice. I’d hoped to arrive before her, but my little trip down memory lane had delayed my departure, so she was probably already inside. I wouldn’t even have have a chance to go splash water on my face. The Starbucks we were meeting in was a tight storefront that was always crowded with people waiting for their caffeine fixes. She would likely be watching the door, notice me when I came in. The thought froze me more than the wind. More than diving into Grayson Lake. It was like plunging headfirst into a bucket of ice water. I shoved my hands in my pocket and took a deep breath, feeling the chill of the winter air make its way into my lungs.
Five, I thought, beginning a backwards count, hoping it would steady me. I took a step forward. Four. Three. Two. I was at the door. All that was left to do was reach out my hand, grab the handle and make my way inside. I watched my breath turn to steam as it left my body. One.
Chapter Nineteen
Hannah
I felt like I was going to vomit.
I’d never actually been great about meeting new people. My tendency to overshare and blurt out slightly off-topic questions threw most people and I was pretty sure I didn’t leave them with the best impression. A coffee date seemed safe, like it wouldn't too long for me to go without making a fool of myself. I should have suggested we start with a pre-planned speed dating session. I could probably be impressive for sixty seconds or five minutes or however long they set those little timers for.
I stood in front of the mirror to try to build myself up. My curvy butt looked good in my high-waisted jeans. My striped sweater hugged my chest without making it look like I was trying too hard. Even if I walked into the coffee shop and immediately stuck my foot in my mouth, my fashion game was on point. I still felt like I was going to vomit. With a glance at my phone, I realized that I still had an hour until I needed to meet my blind date and that in my compulsive over planning, I’d left myself with absolutely no way to distract myself during that hour.
Pacing around my own room didn’t seem like the best option, but it was all I had on short notice. I inched around the periphery, picking up pictures and old stuffed animals. I tossed a lumpy stuffed cat back and forth for a few minutes while staring off into space.
As I continued to stare blankly off into space, there was a soft knock on my door.
“Come in,” I called, and Mom popped her head in, a mass of tangled hair framing her face.