We talked in the car. He talked. Cried. I listened. Windows down. Gusts of wind. Sand from my feet on the Wendy’s bag and black floor mat.
“I was there.”
What? There?
He’d been there? In the car? In the wreck?
Jeez.
Jeez!
I sat quiet and listened.
But I couldn’t help thinking maybe, maybe Buddy could have died that day too.
“I walked away without a scratch.”
“ ’Cause I had on my seat belt. And was in the back.”
“Sometimes I still miss her. Tommie was funny.”
“We talked about being together forever, and I never told my friends ’cause they would have laughed.”
“I thought she was terrific.”
“Sometimes, when I glance at your bedroom window, I think I see her.”
I twisted in my seat. Stared at Buddy.
“How do you know which room is mine?”
He sort of shrugged.
“I’m guessing. There’re only four bedrooms in the house, and I thought . . .”
Nothing was mine alone.
“What?” he said. “I’m not a voyeur or anything. I mean, I’m not peeking in your window. I just guessed you’d have her room.”
I swallowed. “I do.”
He could see her. At my window. Or was it hers? I was confused.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Okay.” I stared out my side of the car instead.
“No! You can look at me . . . just . . . damn it! Big deal! You have her room. I don’t care. Even though I miss her. I’m . . . I’m glad you’re here.”
I let out a sigh of relief but kept staring outside the car.
“I tell you everything and I still can’t say or do it right,” Buddy said.
“What are you talking about?”
He shook his head. “Girls are so hard to figure out. Memories and the real thing.”
Were we still arguing?
“Guys are the ones hard to figure out,” I said.
But Buddy refused to even glance in my direction, so we drove the rest of the way home with not a sound but the traffic around us.
Yes, death plays dirty tricks on the living. And so do ghosts.