“What is it?” I ask her. Then I grin. “You want to stop and have a quickie before we make it home?”
She shakes her head. “No. Did you not hear me hollering at you? Did you hear me telling you what I want? Because I don’t want to run to the woods. I spent enough time locked up. I want to be free.”
“Where is all this coming from? I thought you liked that hunting cabin?”
“Sure I liked it. It was better than the place I was held captive, but I want to be here. I want to be in Home. And I want you to be honest about why you want to run away. Rye, what are you so angry about?”
“Nothing. I’ve never been so happy since meeting you.”
“Then what was that back at your parents’ house? Everyone is worried sick about you. What's your problem, Rye?”
“What do you mean, what's my problem?”
“Well, you were in a bad mood half the time we were there. You hardly said a word at dinner. You stormed into your sister's bedroom. Practically dragged me out of your parents’ house. I don't know what that was about. And then we get in the car and you say you want to leave town. You want to go back out to the middle of nowhere for months on end with me. Why?”
“I don’t have a problem,” I say, looking over at her, but of course, I have plenty of problems. Reasons I don't want to say in town. I don't want to walk down my parents’ hallways, seeing family photos, being reminded of reality. I shake my head. “I don't want to fight with you. We didn't fight all week. We go to my parents’ house for one night and look at us. We're arguing. Let's not be these people.”
“Fine,” she says. “Let's not. I don't want to argue with you either. I love you. You're the last person I want to fight with.”
“Fine, then what are we doing?”
“What we're doing, Rye, is we're talking this out. What are you hiding? What aren't you saying? Because I know something is working you up. Why did your parents send you to the middle of nowhere; why were you in a bad mood for a year? What happened to you? Tell me the truth.”
I shake my head. “I don't want to do this, Prairie. I want to protect you. I want to protect everybody.”
She reaches for my arm, forcing me to turn and look at her. “Rye Rough. You listen to me and you listen to me good. I want to know what's really going on with you. Why are you so unhappy? Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth or we're done.”
12
PRAIRIE
I'm quiet as Rye drives us back to his cabin.
I know he's torn up something bad as we walk into his place. He walks straight to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a tumbler of whiskey.
“That bad, huh?” I ask him as he rakes his hand through his hair.
“Worse. You want some?”
I shake my head. “No thanks. What I really want is to understand you, Rye. I love you. But—”
“I know,” he says. “You deserve the truth.”
“Well, it seems like your family deserves it as well; they love you.”
“I know, but damn it,” he says, setting the whiskey on the table. He didn't even take a sip. “Prairie, fuck, this last week, you and me here, I want to stay in that moment forever.”
“We can't,” I say, “that's make-believe.”
“Does it have to be?”
“Yes, it's beautiful and it's lovely but it's not real life. This is real life. And we can get through it. Whatever it is.”
Rye, though, has tears in his eyes, and he presses his palms to them, wiping the tears away.
“You're scaring me,” I say. I sit down on one of the chairs in the living room. It's wrapped in plaid fabric. Cozy, comfortable. I tuck my feet under myself and I wait. It's his turn to talk. He needs to explain things. I've waited long enough.
“The thing is,” he tells me as he sits down on the couch opposite me, “you know that picture in the hallway? You wanted to know who that man in the photo was?”