Garrett slipped out of the house while Cece was upstairs, knowing he’d drunk too much wine, that as soon as he got into his truck he would technically become a drunk driver, one of the least appealing things a drunk person could become—but he’d stayed too long already. He pulled his car keys from his pocket, almost dropping them on the porch; his hand felt heavier than usual, dense with the memory of Cece’s grip.
She’d hardly said a word to him on the way back from Glacier, staring crossly out the window, still fuming, Garrett imagined, over “the death hike.” Probably it was a relief: not to have to pretend to enjoy his company. He’d had to pee terribly but was afraid to disrupt Cece’s silence. So he was surprised—after he’d dashed into the Margolises’ to use the bathroom—when she asked if he wanted a drink. Charlie had sent her some wines to taste; no doubt he’d value Garrett’s opinion. Also, drinking alone depressed her. Garrett knew nothing about wine but pretended to, noting that one called Half Past a Freckle had “some earth to it” but agreeing, emphatically, that something was missing. (“Wind? Fire?” he’d said, finally making her laugh.) They’d tried a Côtes du Rhône that made his mouth pucker, then something that tasted like a Jolly Rancher—all on an empty stomach. Garrett waited for Cece to kick him out, or at least to nudge him tactfully out the door, suspecting she was simply absolving a guilty conscience. And yet she poured them another wine, and another. Meanwhile, her hand—the same one that had squeezed his up at Glacier, refusing to let go—did not creep away in shame. It did not crawl under the porch to die. Garrett kept sneaking glances at it, as if it were a rare and bashful creature. At some point Charlie called, and Cece had taken the phone upstairs to talk to him.
Garrett climbed into the truck, steadying himself, then dropped his keys before he could get them into the ignition. He switched on the dome light and found them sitting in the thermos he’d parked in the cup holder. They were soaking in the coffee at the bottom. He tried to retrieve them with his fingers, from the heeltap of coffee, but the thermos was too narrow. He drank the cold coffee, extracting the keys with his teeth.
When he glanced up again, through the windshield, Cece had reappeared downstairs. She searched the living room, then stuck her head into the kitchen. How wonderful this was: to be looked for. He was invisible; he could spy on her from his vehicle. Then she opened the front door and went out to the porch and saw him, because of course he wasn’t invisible. He was sitting in a truck with the dome light on. For no earthly reason, Cece pretended not to notice him and then picked up the binoculars from the table and pointed them in his direction, jumping back as though she’d seen a bear. A dopey thing, a joke, and yet all was lost. It was like a compass finding north: a happiness as pure and sudden as that. She even looked different: new and strange and somehow in focus. The wild shrub of hair; the slanty, jack-o’-lantern eyebrows; the dimple in her chin that looked like a poke. None of these features was particularly attractive—on their own, in fact, they were sort of funny-looking—but put together they were beautiful, heart-walloping, a face he’d missed his whole life without knowing it.
Cece, who’d lowered the binoculars, stared at him in concern. Garrett realized he still had the keys in his teeth. He dropped them in his lap, like a golden retriever. “I have to go!” he shouted, essentially to himself. He had some trouble hand-eyeing the key into its slot. Then he switched off the dome light and reversed down the driveway and backed into a corner of the fence, which made a sound like a firecracker. Garrett sped off in his truck, then slowed once he realized how fast he was going. The empty road seemed to dangle in front of him. Good god, what had he done? The moon, that lighthouse in the sky, guided him home. I’m sorry, he said to Charlie in his head, because he’d damaged something and couldn’t remember feeling so happy.