Arizona Heat (10 page)

I’m quiet through lunch, quiet through the rest of our ride, and quiet as we pull into a vacant motel somewhere in the middle of Iowa. Since we are in the middle of nowhere and no serial killers are from Iowa (at least none that I know of), I gladly accept a hot shower and relax. This motel room is a substantial upgrade from our last motel room. The tub isn't too gross to go barefoot and I don't fear bed bugs and diseases are hiding in the mystery stains. I put on a fresh pair of clothes before stepping back into the bedroom. Reagan sits at the small desk, looking perfectly content as he jots down what I assume are lyrics on his notepad. We’ve developed a sort of routine. Reagan lets me alone with my thoughts or books and I let him alone with his music.

“Is everything okay with you and your fiancé? You don't have to answer if you don't want to but you usually can’t keep your mouth shut and you’ve been really quiet.”

He doesn't look at me, just keeps strumming. I look at his arms busting out of his t-shit and resist the urge to jump him. It’s the only thing that I’m fairly sure I want. My brain struggles to shuffle through the clutter in my head and come up with a good response.

“We’re okay.
”
More like two people dancing around the fact that we don’t really like each other anymore.

“I noticed you two don't talk a lot.”

“What are you getting at?
”
I ask, irritation building inside me.

“If I was your fiancé, I would be calling you every five minutes to make sure you weren't screwing the guy you hardly know but agreed to travel the country with. Alone.”

“He trusts me.”

“Okay,
”
he scoffs.

“Well, I haven't
screwed
you so he clearly has nothing to worry about,
”
I spat, anger boiling over.

“I’m not saying
he
shouldn't trust
you
.
”
The comment drips with untold meaning that I don't want to hear. How dare he make accusations when he doesn't know anything about my relationship.

I grab my bag and burst out of the motel door, heading down the road toward nowhere in particular. I hear footsteps approach from behind and briefly glance over my shoulder to make sure it’s Reagan behind me and not a stranger.

“I’m sorry,
”
he huffs, exasperated.

“For?
”
I ask, bitchier than I mean to.

“Making accusations when I don’t know anything about this guy.”

“Simon,
”
I clarify.

“Right, Simon,
”
he says. “I just feel like if he isn't calling you then he isn't treating you right. The other night when you rushed to the computer to talk to him, it was obvious that you care. The thought that he doesn't put the same effort in bothers me.”

“What does it matter to you?
”
I ask, whipping my body around to face him.

“I care about you,
”
he says, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck like he might be a little embarrassed.

His admission is everything. I feel my heart beat out of my chest and even though the night is cool, my forehead breaks out in a cold sweat. Everything in me wants to close the distance between us and press my lips to his. He wants me to, I can tell, but I can't do that right now. Not when Simon just said he wanted to try and fix things between us. It may have been a crock of shit but I’ll never forgive myself if I let myself fall for Reagan when things with Simon aren't completely figured out.

I burst through the door of the next available establishment and am greeted by an overwhelming scent of stale beer and cigarettes. Old school country music blares through the speakers and I glance back at Reagan who looks apprehensive. I march straight toward the bar and take a seat between a middle age man with his eyes glued to a baseball game and an older gentleman in a cowboy hat who looks like he might fall onto the floor at any second. A burley man with a long beard slaps a napkin down in front of me and asks me what I’m drinking. I want to order a martini but decide a beer would be more appropriate.

I can’t help but notice his beard is trimmed just enough to look natural and his flannel is designer. His hair is swooped to one side and I realize he’s a hipster disguised as a country boy. He must notice my staring at him because he walks back over.

“You’re not from around here are you?
”
he asks.

“How could you tell?
”
I ask jokingly.

“Well,
you
look like you could fit in just about anywhere but that tall drink of water who walked in behind you screams West Coast.”

“Ah yes,
”
I nod, looking behind me to find Reagan sitting at table looking defeated.

“California?
”
he asks.

“He lives in LA but I live in New York.”

“New York,
”
he nods, impressed. “How is it the two of you ended up together if he’s from California?”

“We’re both from Arizona,
”
I explain. “And we aren't together.”

He must sense the sadness in my voice because he places a reassuring hand on mine. I smile at him and take a sip of my beer. The bartender, Joe, asks me all about New York and looks like he is in love as I describe the tall buildings and extraordinary people.

“I want to go there so bad,
”
he groans.

“Then come!
”
I’m on my third beer and feeling a little friendly. “You can stay with me and my…Never mind. Just come to New York!”

“You got it, Josie.”

“Here’s my number,
”
I say, jotting it down on a napkin. “Just text me when you buy your plane ticket and I’ll pick you up from the airport. Oh! Francesca. You have to meet Francesca. You’re going to love her.”

“Whatever you say,
”
he laughs.

Joe’s face stiffens as he glances over my shoulder. I swing the bar stool around to find Reagan b-lining for the bar and he looks pissed.

“So you have a fianc
é
and you don’t want me because of it, but you give the bartender your number?”

I cross my arms and glare at him. His audacity is truly offensive and my drunken mind is angry with him for accusing me of not liking him. He can’t be serious or he must be blind. “Really? You’re going to go there?
”
I challenge. He raises his eyebrows and we stare at each other in a silent standoff. We get a few curious stares from bystanders but neither of us backs down. His eyes feel like they are burning a hole through me but I’m too mad to be effected by it.

He breaks eye contact first and runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t get it,
”
he says, exasperated.

“What don’t you get?
”
I scoff.

“Why don’t you like me?
”
The honesty of the question surprises me and I stumble over my words before forming a coherent sentence.

“I just don’t want to hurt Simon’s feelings. Joe, the bartender, said he wanted to take a trip to New York and I offered to show him around. I’m not interested in him like that. I was just being nice and he’s a cool guy.”

“Oh,
”
Reagan mutters, looking a little embarrassed. I don’t know what to say to him so I look around the bar for something to distract myself with. There is a small cluster of people line dancing by the pool tables and an idea pops in my head.

“Do you know how to line dance?”

“Why would I know how to line dance?”

I feel a Cheshire Cat level smile grow on my face and Reagan starts shaking his head no. “No way,
”
he states firmly. I offer my cutest pout and Reagan groans. He takes my hand as I lead him to the group of people dancing and stands awkwardly, looking terribly out of place. I instruct him to follow me as I fall in line with the other dancers. Right over left, together and kick. Line dancing isn’t that hard but Reagan looks at me like I’m curing cancer.

“Come on,
”
I say as I wave him over. Reagan hesitates but falls in line next to me and starts moving from side to side. He picks up the basic steps but stumbles when we turn. I place my hands on his waist to steady him and offer a small smile. “You’re doing great,
”
I say.

“Yeah right,
”
he scoffs, staring down at his feet in concentration. I laugh at him and he glares at me playfully. We dance for a few more songs and Reagan looks like he’s getting into it.

The music slows and a Carrie Underwood ballad fills the air. I shift awkwardly, unsure if we should leave or keep dancing. Reagan decides for me, grabbing my hand and pulling my body to his.

“This kind of dancing I can do,
”
he says proudly. I wrap an arm around his neck as he holds me close and I rest my head on his shoulder. His cologne is overpowering this close up and I feel drunk in his scent. Reagan nuzzles his face in my hair and I close my eyes to absorb the moment.

It surprises me how quickly he can bounce back from our arguments. He explains why he’s pissed and once we’ve talked, he brushes it off like it never happened. Simon holds onto things, argument after argument building up until we walk on egg shells. I know it’s the reason we resent each other but I can’t talk to him when he’s spouting vindictive and hateful things. Speaking of Simon, he hasn't called.

I hop into the driver’s seat and open my brand new CD. There is an abstract looking sun on the cover with the album title wrapped around it. After popping it in the CD player, a slow guitar melody fills the air. Reagan looks over at me with wide eyes and I suppress a smile.

“I thought you didn't like this kind of music?”

“I’m open minded
”
I smirk.

“When did you buy a CD?
”
he asks with a smile.

“On our last stop. I just got into this new band, they're pretty cool.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep, really unique sound,
”
I say proudly.

Reagan just shakes his head but I can see he’s happy I bought his album. We listen to song after song and I have to wonder if listening to your own music in such a casual manner is weird.

“Is it strange to listen to yourself sing?”

“Um.
”
Reagan tips his head from side to side, thinking. “Yes and no. It’s not as if I haven't listened to each track a million times, but hearing them on the radio still surprises me. Sometimes I try to forget they’re my songs and listen objectively, but it usually doesn't work. I critique them every time I listen and it sort of takes the fun out of it.”

“What is there to criticize? Your songs are amazing,
”
I say encouragingly.

“Says the girl who doesn't like this kind of music,
”
he smirks.

“So I jumped on the band wagon a little late? I’m converting now, don't fight it.”

“Not fighting,
”
he says, holding his hands up in defense.

“Good, now shut up. You’re ruining the song.”

He laughs and pulls his notebook out of his bag, jotting some words down. I try and see what he has written but his penmanship is crap and there’s a lot crossed out. Leaving Reagan alone with his thoughts, I focus on the road, the next step. Driving in an uncharted direction seems so much more significant than simply following the white and yellow lines. We could stop at any moment, or carry on until we run out of gas, hell, we could crash right now. All of it feels like part of a larger plan, like there is an invisible guide that I have no control over, nor do I care to try and control it. It’s freeing, letting go, taking every doubt or sense of urgency and allowing it to breeze out the window. I’ve never felt this before. Maybe it’s Reagan or my recent soul searching, but everything is becoming very clear.

After hours of corn fields and green hills, I notice a sign for the Field of Dreams. My memory flickers to Kevin Costner and the uplifting tale of a man who perhaps went a little crazy and built a baseball field in his front yard. “If you build it, he will come.
”
I recall the film and turn off the exit, following the attraction signs. Reagan is scribbling away at his notebook, paying no attention to where I am headed. I grin to myself and hope he will get as much of a kick out of this as I am.

I pull into a parking space on the dirt road in front of the notorious white house and classic baseball diamond. While Reagan focuses intently on his lyrics, I hop out of the RV and stretch my legs. The sun is shining and the cool Midwestern breeze makes the heat feel utterly perfect. There are only a few other tourists, one family looking at a placard facing the field. The father nods thoughtfully and the mother reads aloud excitedly as their three children kick the dirt impatiently.

Walking out onto the field, I try to remember details from the movie. I recall the White Sox fading away into the corn fields and step into the cluster of tall stalks.

“Shit,
”
I mutter as the coarse leaves rub against my bare skin. It turns out corn is tougher than I thought. The stalks are surprisingly sturdy and the leaves are rough.

“What are you doing?”

His voice causes me to whip around and almost lose my footing, but the corn keeps me steady. Reagan stands a few feet away from me with the biggest lopsided grin. My heart pounds out of my chest as I recede into the stalks for safety. He looks too perfect as the afternoon sun browns his already tan skin and his million dollar smile twists my stomach. “Did the corn hurt you?
”
he asks with a hint of good-natured sarcasm. I open my mouth to answer but no words come out. His brown eyes are devious as he steps into the corn field. I absentminded take a few steps back, falling into the green stalks until there is nothing but corn surrounding us.

“It’s rougher than I expected,
”
I spit out with a nervous laugh.

“You’ve never seen corn before?
”
Reagan asks, cocking his head to the side.

“I moved right from Arizona to New York City. There aren't corn fields like this in the desert or in the city…
”
I babble on for a few minutes before Reagan places a hand behind my neck and gently pulls me into his chest. The air leaves my lungs as I gawk up at him. His smirk is filled with confidence as he leans into me, putting our lips a few inches apart.

The world disappears and I’m in an alternate universe where nothing exists but Reagan and I. The corn field closes in around us and I feel my inhibitions fade away. With just the two of us, all of my fears and worries don't matter and I’m left with love. I don’t know when it happened or how, but my heart lifts out of my chest at the realization. I’m not even sure one can love a person they only just met, but in our short time together I’ve fallen for him, his kindness, his talent, his everything.

I lean in to close the distance between us and my phone vibrates. After a few moments of trying to ignore it, I realize Reagan can also feel it. Thus, the moment is ruined. I groan and pull it out of my front pocket to find Francesca’s face flash across the screen. The vibrating stops and immediately starts back up again. It’s not unlike her to blow up my phone but something doesn’t feel right. I offer Reagan an apologetic smile and answer.

“Yeah,
”
I say, unable to hide my annoyed tone.

“Josie.
”
The tone of her voice says everything.

“What happened?”

“It’s Simon,
”
she says with a sigh.

“What happened to him?
”
I ask with a gasp.

“He’s fine, not hurt or anything.”

“Then what?”

“I saw him out last night.”

“Okay,
”
I say calmly but my stomach drops.

“He was with Madelyn, you know, from the company?”

“I know her,
”
I say, my tone flat.

“Right. Okay. So. They were at one of the bars we all go to. The two of them were in a booth and it seemed…intimate. I took some pictures if you want me to send them to you?”

“Okay,
”
I whisper.

“I would have called you last night but I wanted to ask around and get the whole story before we talked. Jess heard from Becca that they were on and off before you two got together sophomore year and he cut it off when you guys met. I had never heard that before so obviously I was shocked, but after doing some digging through the photos she’s tagged in on Facebook, I noticed a bunch of pictures of them together looking pretty chummy. I called Becca to get closer to the source and she explained that Madelyn never got over him and after we graduated, Simon reached out to her. Becca claims that they just talked until maybe a few months ago when they started hooking up. I’m so sorry Josie. I tried to find an explanation where he is innocent but I just can’t find one.”

I don’t speak. I focus on breathing. My mind runs through a million different scenarios where Francesca misinterpreted what she saw or where Becca was lying. I try and figure out what nights Simon could have possibly went out without me knowing. Sure, I was gone a lot during school but I surely would have noticed if he was out, right? Every scenario I come up with where he is innocent crumbles through my fingers. Nothing makes sense besides the obvious. I’ve been cheated on.

“Josie?”

“Yes,
”
I say through tears I didn't notice were falling.

“I’m so sorry,
”
she says hopelessly.

“I’m so stupid,
”
I manage through sobs.

“Stop. No. You’re not stupid. He is stupid. Simon has torn you down for too many years and on top of that he does this? Unacceptable. He never deserved you. You do see that don’t you?”

“No,
”
I say because I feel like a worthless idiot who got played like a fiddle and wasn't even smart enough to notice for
months
. What is possibly worse is that I might have suspected what was happening and ignored it. Other people, people I thought were my friends, knew about it. Why did no one tell me?

“I could kill him,
”
Francesca mutters.

“I have to go.
”
I have to call Simon.

“Are you okay?”

“No. I mean, I will be.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,
”
I whisper.

Standing momentarily dumbfounded, I don't know if I should run, cry, or crumble to the ground. As I sway back in forth, clutching my phone in my hand, it vibrates. I glance down at the screen and feel it vibrate every few seconds as picture after picture comes in. Each one is worse than the last. They begin with Simon sitting uncomfortably close to Madelyn in a red booth. The light is dim but I can see his face clear as day.

As the pictures go on, I see their faces inch closer together until his tongue is all but down her throat. My heart sinks and I feel like I might vomit. After staring at the photos for what feels like an eternity, my knees buckle and I sink into the dirt as inconsolable tears stream down my cheeks. He broke us. In every way you look at it, he broke us and I didn't fight for it. I didn't notice it, or I didn't want to, and just when I thought everything was going to get better, it crumbles.