Infinity + One (31 page)

He wasn’t. He was waiting by the entrance, his eyes trained on the far corner where the Charger was parked. There wasn’t a police car in sight, but there was an older model Suburban idling nearby, and a man surveying Bear’s car with a phone to his ear.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“I think that guy ran into Bear’s car,” Finn said.

“And instead of driving away, he did the honest thing and is waiting for us to come out to exchange insurance information,” I finished.

“Yeah.” Finn sounded grim. “Let’s go. We’re not in trouble yet.”

As we approached, the man on the phone turned toward us and seemed as relieved as he was apologetic. He was a middle-aged, heavy-set man in a tie and slacks that were a tad too short, making him look slightly pathetic and unkempt. If the paper doll family decal on the back window of his Suburban was any indication, he had ten zillion kids and several pets, and his clothes were probably way down on the list of priorities. His Suburban only had a few scratches that may have been there before his collision, but that was obviously not making him feel any better.

“Oh, hey! Are you the owners? Man, I am so sorry. My Burban sits high, and I couldn’t see your car in my rear view. I was in a hurry, and I pulled out too far, too fast, and just nailed the back of your car.”

Bear was going to kill us. The whole panel above the bumper was caved in, one taillight was broken, and the trunk had sprung open from the impact.

“I already called the cops because I wasn’t sure if you were in the store or if you’d parked here for a car pool or something and weren’t coming back for a while. There are quite a few people who do that here in Guymon—’course you’re from Tennessee. Guess I should have thought of that. Man, I am so sorry!”

Finn pushed the damaged trunk all the way open and unloaded the basket swiftly, his eyes darting between the adjacent street and the entrances into the Walmart parking lot. He hadn’t said anything to the honest Abe who was wringing his hands and talking non-stop. Then Finn slammed the trunk several times, trying to get it to catch, even though it didn’t quite line up with the latch anymore, causing the agitated driver of the Suburban to pause mid-sentence and frown at Finn in confusion. I slid a folded hundred dollar bill into the man’s wrinkled breast pocket, gave it a pat, stepped by him, and climbed into the passenger seat. Finn slammed the trunk once more and luckily it held. He slid in beside me a second later.

“H-hey! Hey! Don’t you want my insurance information? You can’t just leave! I messed up your car!” he cried.

We backed out, gliding by the dumbfounded man who had pulled the bill I’d given him from his pocket and stood staring down at it, holding an end in each hand. A police cruiser turned onto the street that led to the enormous Walmart parking lot, passing us without a glance just as our light turned green, and we merged into the traffic headed toward the freeway nearby.

“Doesn’t drive any different,” I said optimistically.

“You’re the one who’s telling Bear,” Finn said.

“I CAN’T GET a hold of him. I texted and left a message. I think I’m going to be buying Bear a new car when it’s all said and done. Do you think we need to find some new wheels?” I chewed my lip, and Finn reached over and pulled it from my teeth with his middle finger, making me forget, momentarily, about conspicuous license plates and missing bumpers.

“Where? I’m sure the guy in the Suburban gave the license plate to the police. But he was the one at fault, and judging from what we saw, he’ll take full blame. The police might run the plates, but that will just lead them to Bear. Which is why we need to give him a heads up. He’ll handle it.” Finn was playing the role of the optimist now, apparently. It made me breathe a little easier.

“So what next?”

“Vegas.”

“How far?”

“I don’t know exactly. We’ll be dropping into the northern edge of Texas, and we’ll make New Mexico tonight, but I’ve got to get some gas. We’ll get some things from the trunk and make a plan and figure out how far we’ve got to go.”

Finn used my new phone for a quick Mapquest check, and reported that we still had fourteen hours to go and another four after that to get to LA. We fueled up at a truck stop, using the bathrooms to change into clean clothes. We didn’t eat inside or even go in and out at the same time, trying to lower the odds of being recognized together. We were both nervous and were eager to be away from people, now that the story seemed to have garnered national attention. I’d been on the covers of magazines before, but Finn hadn’t, and I didn’t want him seeing them at every turn. Even as crazy as I knew press coverage could be, I didn’t understand what was happening. Why was my life of such interest? And what could have possibly prompted any magazines to run a story on me and Clyde? And that brought the fear back. How could I be so afraid of losing someone who I’d just found? In less than a week, he had become the only thing that mattered.

We drove for four hours, the day clear and sunny, the temperatures climbing into the low 60s, signaling February was almost behind us, and that we had officially arrived in the desert. Finn listened to all of my albums, remarking on this and that, and he seemed intent on every word, like he couldn’t get enough. He skipped through the songs with heavy instrumentation, perky melodies, and flying fiddles. He seemed drawn to the ballads, the stripped down vocals, and the songs that told a story. It was a little strange for me, listening to myself sing for hours on end, but his intense focus on my voice was almost erotic, and I leaned my seat back and watched him quietly, letting my thoughts wander.

I’d been with Minnie this time last year. I’d gone home for our birthday. Minnie was going through chemo again, and had lost all her hair for the second time. I’d felt guilty that I hadn’t shaved my head with her, like I’d done before, and she’d told me I was ridiculous.

“You’re not required to be my twin in every way, Bonnie. Looking alike is a pain in the butt. Plus, you look a whole lot better than I do right now, so the fact that I look like you, but not nearly as good as you, is a little painful for me.

“It is?” I don’t know why that hurt my feelings. But it did. Minnie must have seen the hurt in my face, because she grabbed my hand and smiled.

“I’ve always loved that we looked alike. I thought it was fun. And I thought you were beautiful—which comforted me. Because if you were beautiful, I must be too,” Minnie soothed.

“I would tell you that you are indeed very beautiful, but that seems a little self-serving.” I lay back on the bed beside her, still holding her hand. We lay quietly for a minute.

“Why are we spending our birthday in Grassley?” I whined abruptly. “I have loads of money, and we’re twenty-one. We should go to Atlantic City!”

“Nah. Let’s go to Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas.”

“You have?” I immediately started to plot how I could get us there as soon as possible.

“Yeah, I have.” Minnie nodded thoughtfully. “I want to dance in one of those shows where the girls wear feathers on their heads—”

“And nothing on their chests?” I interrupted, sitting up so I could grin down into her face.

“I think it would be very freeing!” Minnie protested. “Just dancing and kicking my legs—”

“And shaking your ta tas,” I interrupted again and jumped up on the bed, kicking and shimmying and bouncing her around.

“Everyone looks exactly alike under all that makeup and all that bling. Nobody would know which boobs were mine.” She giggled, flailing helplessly as I jumped as high as I could.

“I would! Your boobs look just like mine!” I shrieked, laughing.

“Ha! Not anymore.” Minnie lifted up her shirt and looked down at her shrunken chest, and I stopped jumping, my legs suddenly weak, my laughter gone. I fell down beside her on the bed, horrified and grief-stricken and unable to hide my reaction. I looked at her. At all of her. And I saw what I’d been refusing to see. She was right. Her breasts looked nothing like mine. Her body looked nothing like mine. Even her face, impossibly angular with her weight loss, looked different from mine. And I wanted to cover my eyes and break every mirror so I could keep the image of us the way we were fresh in my mind. She was being ripped from me, piece by piece.

“Minnie. Oh, Minnie May.” I put my arms around her, and I couldn’t stop the tears. “I’ll take you to Vegas, baby. I’ll take you when your ta tas grow back, and you and I will dance topless with feathers and high heels, and Gran will be so scandalized.”

Minnie didn’t cry with me—she just let me hold her, and she laid her head on my shoulder as I rubbed her back.

“She’ll be scandalized. But if we’re any good, she’ll be the first to call the press. Anonymously of course,” Minnie whispered, and I laughed wetly, the truth simultaneously hilarious and tragic. Minnie let me hold her for a few minutes longer, and then she pulled away and met my eyes seriously. Hopefully.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Bonnie Rae. I actually feel pretty good. You’ll see. I’m getting better. The next time you come to Grassley, I’ll have the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen. You’ve got Dolly hair, but I’ll have Dolly boobs. And I forbid you to get them too. No twinner boobs! I want everyone to be looking at me and only me when we go to Vegas.”

I would be in Vegas tomorrow. And Minnie wouldn’t be with me. I wouldn’t be dancing topless with a feathered headdress alongside my sister. I would be dancing sister-less, like a feather in the wind, a spinning top, the world around me like a colorful stream of nothing.

I closed my eyes, suddenly impossibly dizzy. And Finn reached out and touched my face.

“Where did you go, Bonnie Rae?” he said softly.

“What do you mean?” I liked the way his fingers felt on my skin and leaned into his palm. The dizziness abated instantly.

“Sometimes you’re right there, right on the surface, full of life and so crazy and beautiful that it makes me ache.”

His deep voice was melancholy, and I hated that I had caused it.

“Then there are times, days like today,” he continued softly, “when you’re buried deep, and your beautiful face is just a house where you live. But the lights aren’t on, and the windows and doors are locked down tight. I know you’re in there, but I’m not with you. Maybe Minnie’s with you. But I don’t think so. You’re alone. And I wish you would let me in.”

I climbed over the space between our seats and slid into his lap, laying my head on his shoulder, wrapping my arms around him as tightly as I could, breathing him in. I lifted the blinds on my metaphorical house, the one he described so well, and I gave him a glimpse inside. He continued driving, left arm wrapped around me, right arm on the wheel, and he settled his lips on my forehead.

“Our birthday is tomorrow,” I said, placing my mouth by his ear so I didn’t have to speak up. “Sometimes I miss her so much, that dark corners and locked doors are all I can manage.”

“Ah, Bonnie. I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Are birthdays hard for you too?” I asked.

“Fisher and I were born two hours apart. Fish was born first, on August 7
th
, at around eleven pm. I was born on August 8
th
, a little after one am. So we each have our own birthday. But, yeah. Birthdays suck.” Finn was silent for several heartbeats. “So when you’re sad like this . . . and quiet, it’s because of Minnie?”

“Today is hard because I’m thinking about tomorrow. And I’m thinking about what I’ve lost. But I had days like this even before Minnie died. Days I just checked out. Gran says it’s just the blues. Everybody gets the blues. Maybe that’s all they are. But they feel more like grays than blues, and more black than gray sometimes. It’s always worse after I’ve been working too hard, singing night after night, pouring myself out all over the stage so people can lap me up. I love it, the singing, the performing, the people, the music, but sometimes I forget to save something . . . the something that is essentially me, and my light goes out. Sometimes it takes a while to get it burning again.”

“I see.” Finn’s hand stroked up and down my back, soothing me. His fingers traced the line of my jaw and dipped into the whorl of my ear and down across my lips. I turned and pressed my lips into his neck in response and felt an easing in my chest and a corresponding tightening low in my belly.

“But you have a key, Finn, and I give you permission to come on in,” I said. “Even if it’s dark, and you don’t know what you’ll find, you come on in, okay?” I felt an ache in my throat that grew as I spoke. “I want you in here with me, even if it isn’t pretty, even if I don’t invite you.”

Finn’s arm tightened around me, and he nuzzled my cheek with his, pulling me so close I could barely breathe, and I pressed my face into him and closed my eyes, and willed him to join me there behind my lids. Within minutes he pulled off an exit that led to somewhere else, pulling into a gas station that had long since closed its doors. A sign that lied about snacks and cold beer hung loosely on a pole, see-sawing back and forth in the brisk February wind, the ancient advertising almost illegible, the sun having stolen its color, leaving it faded and on the brink of extinction. I wondered if the bright lights would eventually do the same to me.