He parks a block over, on Pearl Street, in front of the church. He’s got acid in his throat from puking, and he digs through the glove box until he finds a tin of Altoids, throws a handful in his mouth and starts chewing.
He leaves the truck running, the heater blowing, and texts her. Turns off the lights. The truck is old enough that there are no automatic lights, and there are no streetlights on Pearl, so it’s a heavy darkness. He wishes there were streetlights: he likes watching the snow fall through the artificial light, the way each piece is its own individual thing but also part of something larger.
There are a couple of parked cars along the way, but it’s basically deserted. A few porch lights are on, but the houses are all sealed up tight for the night. A good neighborhood with good people, the kind of people who are asleep after midnight on a Friday night, Saturday a day for errands and taking the kids to practice and the library and finally getting around to fixing that loose stair tread, why don’t we bake cookies this afternoon, go see a movie, do you need help with your homework?
He gets out of the truck and walks over to a row of bushes beside the church. He’s got to take a piss, the beer working its way through him. It’s a relief letting go. His hands are shaking. He can’t stop his hands from shaking.
He finishes and then walks back to the truck. He puts his hand on the door handle and then hesitates, looks back at the bed of the truck. What would he see if there were streetlights, if he took a look? The back corner of his truck. Broken taillight and what else? But before he can pull out his phone to turn on the flashlight, he sees Deanne rounding the corner and heading to him.
She’s on him quick, sliding her arms through the open jacket and around his waist. She’s all cinnamon gum, her lips warm, tongue flicking against his teeth.
She pulls back. “Have you been drinking? You taste like mint and beer. It’s gross.”
“I had a couple of beers. And some Altoids.” At least he’s covered the worst of his sins.
She’s got her hips pressed against his, and his arms are over her shoulders. His back is against the driver’s door, solid, propping him up. He likes the way she leans into him, like she’s his and he is hers, and he realizes his hands have stopped shaking.
Her hand snakes up under his T-shirt, her fingertips cool on his lower back. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t,” Jessup says. “Not really.”
She crinkles her nose but she’s smiling, full of theatrics. “Your breath stinks. Blech. Beer.” She reaches into her purse, a canvas satchel, and pulls out a pack of gum. She pops a piece into his mouth, and once he’s taken a few chews, she kisses him again, both of them tasting now of cinnamon.
“You don’t mind blowing off Megan and Brooke?”
“Would you rather go to the diner, or would you rather go park in the woods somewhere and have sex?”
“Yeah. Well.”
“You’re shivering.”
Shaking, not shivering, Jessup thinks, but he says, “It’s cold out here. But it’s warm in the truck.”
She giggles and then kisses him. “I told them we’ll meet tomorrow after work. Unless, you know, you’d really rather . . .”
“No, no, no,” he says quickly. “I’m fine with skipping the diner.”