Page 135 of Killer Body

I get into the Volvo, wanting to cry.

The jacaranda trees lining the walk in front of the motel have burst into purple flowers overnight, so dramatic they look as if a designer has placed them there. The interior of the Volvo has been cleaned again. That vanilla scent indigenous to car washes covers the darker smoke smell.

As we drive away, Hamilton takes out a cigarette. “You feel like lunch?”

“Not here.” My voice says what my words can’t.

“Gotcha.”

He pulls onto the freeway, then lowers his window. A burst of air blows into the car. He tosses the cigarette, raises the window.

“What’s that about?” I ask.

“I think I just quit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He looks over for my reaction. “Maybe we’ll stop in Bakersfield. Does that work for you?”

I think ahead, of the Grapevine, of Bakersfield and the scrubby flat land of the San Joaquin Valley that waits for me. My job. The hole Lisa has left. The hole I can feel in my own life. Questions. Answers. The newspaper. Hamilton. The whispered hope of the future.

Real life.

“Works for me,” I say. “And, Den, I’m buying lunch.”