As much as she might want to, Annabelle cannot stay in that pasture like a lady cow. So, she gets up and heads back to Bair Reservoir and to whatever might happen next. Her back is arched with fatigue and sorrow, and she clutches Luke Messenger’s shorts around her middle. Now, she definitely looks like Mr. Giancarlo of Sunnyside Eldercare during that unfortunate attack of colitis.
There is a little dot on the horizon. A moving dot. She squinches her eyes. She probably needs glasses. The dot is growing a bit larger. Now what? she thinks. It’s probably a raging bull coming to gore her, or a Harley Davidson racing to slice her in two.
No. It’s slow, whatever it is.
From that distance, the figure is serpent-y, with wavy anemones on its top half. It’s a creature, walking out of the sea. It’s a man. A solitary man. Now, she sees that the anemones are messy curls and the creature is Luke Messenger.
Shit! A warm wind whips through the valley. The yellow grass sways. He’s huffing and puffing right in front of her. A drop of sweat hightails it down Luke’s forehead and drops right off his nose, like those goats that fling themselves from cliffs.
“Hey.”
“How do you do this? I tried to jog a mile out here and I’m dying. My chest is burning. Jesus, I’m out of shape.”
He doesn’t look it. Forget she thought that.
“Well, your sweatshirt must weigh two pounds. And . . . cargo shorts? All those pockets. Pound and a half. Boots! Hiking boots. Might as well wear two toddlers on your feet.”
“So, sleek as a seal, like . . .” He nods toward her own clothes.
“These are not my fault.”
“Mine either. I’m not exactly the silky-basketball-shorts type. They were a Christmas present from my father, who played forward for his college team.”
“If he also gave you a jersey with his old number on it, I can see why you’re out here with your grandma.”
“That was for my birthday,” he laughs. He doesn’t say more, and she respects that. She’s glad of it, too. She doesn’t want to hear the whole history of him. Wanting to hear the whole history of a person, wanting to know their story, lured by the mystery of what you don’t yet know—it’s gotten her into plenty of trouble.
Why’d you guys move from Burlington? It sounds so nice, she asked The Taker.
My dad got a research job here, at the university. I was glad we moved. I hated my old school.
Why?
Private school. Lots of rich kids who lived on the lake. Acted like they were hot shit. My mom wanted us to get out of there. She thought I was friends with a bad crowd ’cause this kid I know robbed an old guy.
“Are you okay?” Luke Messenger asks.
“Sure.”
“Mim suggested I come and check on you. I don’t know. She was worried you’d run off or something. Hey, I wouldn’t have wanted to be out in that storm today.”
“It was crazy. Um, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got to run back. You know, the whole way.”
“No problem.”
“You can walk, maybe?”
“Hell no. I got my second wind.”
He jogs backward.
She can’t help herself. She laughs. He looks so funny, with his wild hair bouncing. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going the whole way like this.”
“You’re going backward the whole way. Why?”
“I’m standing by.”
• • •
Annabelle paces outside, along the edge of the reservoir. At least, she thinks the reservoir is out there. In the dark, the lake is black plus black. She hears the ripple of water, a gentle shush against the shore.
“Relax,” Grandpa Ed says. “It’s not like I stuck you with the Manson family.”
“They’re in there.” She eyes the camper.
“Of course they’re in there. Relax. You’re cutting out.” Annabelle swears he makes the fake crackling of bad phone service. Then he’s gone.
“Cutting out, my cu. Agnelli Curse,” she says to the dead air of the phone.
When her phone buzzes right in her hand, she thinks she misjudged him and he’s calling her back. But, no, it’s Malcolm. She’s so happy. The connection has been so bad since Idaho that she’s only been able to have two-second conversations, if that, with Malc, Mom, and her “team.” But, hey, she’ll take two seconds. Malc on the phone now—it’s like seeing her fellow astronaut when she was sure she was lost in space.
“Butthead!”
“We heard about the tire. Bummer,” he says. At least, that’s what she pieces together. It sounds like: eard tire ummer.
“Malc, it sucks. Get me outta here.”
“He’ll be back tomorrow. You’ll be running down Highway Twelve, and Grandpa will be parked at Martinsdale Colony.”
“Martinsdale Colony? I’m picturing sci-fi pods of extraterrestrials.”
“It’s a sect of Hutterites. Super awesome. Similar to the Amish, but they embrace technology,” Malcolm says. Or something like that. His voice cuts out at every third word. “They were happy for you to park there. No problem. And they run the state’s biggest wind farm, which is über-cool.”
Gina is shouting something in the background.
“What’d she just say, Malc? I swore I heard ‘YouTube sensation.’ ”
“Um, she said you two are sensational ! You and Grandpa Ed.”
“Tell her I love her, too. I really miss—”
“Gotta go. You’re cutting out.”
Maybe she’s losing her mind, but she swears he makes a fake crackle, same as Grandpa Ed. All of these long, lonely runs are making her paranoid.
• • •
It’d be bad enough to be stuck with strangers in a large house, let alone in this ten-by-thirty-foot box. They will ask her questions. The tragedy will sit all around. It will lie heavy in the air. They will wonder how it felt, and what’s it’s like to have Seth Greggory in her future.
“Could you get ahold of him?” Dawn Celeste asks.
Inside, the windows are hazy with steam, and there is the warm, tomatoey smell of chili. Luke Messenger pulls a pan of corn bread from the oven.
“Yep. He’s still in Helena.”
“Smell,” Luke says. He waves the pan under her nose.
“Yum. Did you make that?”
“Me and Jiffy and a half cup of water.”
After dinner, they play cards. Dawn Celeste claims to be the gin rummy champ of the century. There’s the quiet snap of cards as Luke deals. There are loud groans of losing, the cheer of a win. Luke pounds the table after two victories in a row. No one asks her anything. She doesn’t ask much, either. They’re just . . . having fun.
“The only one who ever beat me three for three was Sammy Jackson,” Dawn Celeste says. “There was gloating.”
“He sounds like a sore winner,” Annabelle says.
“She. Luke’s friend,” Dawn Celeste clarifies. Annabelle is sure she hears the emphasis that means girlfriend. She relaxes even more, even though Luke’s eyes are really blue, and he wears one of those woven leather bracelets she always likes.
“Two out of two, that means you serve dessert,” Dawn Celeste tells Luke.
“She makes up the rules as she goes,” Luke tells Annabelle.
“We’ll have to see where Annabelle stands.” Dawn Celeste sits back and folds her arms over her chest. She’s changed into a caftan but wears a pair of fuzzy socks on her feet.
“It will be the true test of character.” Luke fishes in the cupboard. He plops the packages down on the Formica table. “Red Vines or Twizzlers?”
Annabelle grimaces. “Oh no. I sense this is a dangerous question.”
“Yeah, just whose side you’re on, is all.”
“Red Vines are insubstantial.” Dawn Celeste bites the head off of a Twizzler.
“Twizzlers are the Taco Bell of candy.” Luke smells a Red Vine like it’s a fine cigar.
“I’m Switzerland,” Annabelle says.
• • •
She is aware of their sleep sounds: a rustle of sheets, the sleeping bag Luke prefers, unzipping to let the cool air in. Annabelle is wide-awake. She needs her sleep for the run to Martinsdale Colony tomorrow, and this day has felt like a month of days. But she just lies there with her eyes open, listening to the almost-silence. Strangely, though, her body is still, and her mind is quiet. She can hear the calm lap of the reservoir waves against the shore.
Anxiety is like being in freeway traffic all the time. There’s the constant sense of dodging and darting, seeking your chance to cut in, the irritation of others pulling ahead of you. You hit the accelerator; slam the brakes. You scout and scan for danger. Here, though, there is no traffic and no freeway. There is gentle company and books on shelves. There is quiet. There’s fun. Dawn Celeste has a laugh that sounds like a pot bubbling over. Everyone gets to do as they wish.
How weird, she thinks, that there are people who maybe don’t feel this thing, this endless buzz of nerves and fear and responsibility and control. It is so relaxing without it. It is restful. Maybe she could make any choice and it would be okay. Maybe she could quit her big job of being responsible for everyone else’s feelings. Dr. Mann has suggested this before, but it sounded like a crazy, unreachable goal.
She closes her eyes now. Just for a second, she imagines it—letting go. Handing the heavy stuff back to the people it belongs to. When she does, she gets the most peaceful feeling, as if there’s a cool and reassuring hand on her forehead. She is safe and okay and the storm is out there somewhere, but not here.