“Is this is a pity party for one or are guests invited?” the imagined Roxy said, looking over her glasses at him.
Truth be told, I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m just angry. With the tabloid reporters, with my stupid and repeated mistakes, and with not knowing the truth after all this time.
After eavesdropping on Nanna and Roxy’s conversation, and knowing his grandmother was in a deep stage of grief, William had stifled his nagging questions. He’d saved his frustrations for the blowout with his brothers after his drunken arrival at the funeral, a version of the same fight they’d had almost their entire lives. Greg had torn into him about his lack of respect. Brian then stepped up to the plate, calling him irresponsible, complaining how everyone coddled him. He even went so far as to say that if William hadn’t run off into the woods that night he and Greg were camping, their lives would be completely different.
Then came the shoving and a toppled lamp, William chastising Brian for never taking his side, saying that his brother knew the truth too. Brian had seen the light, he’d seen what happened.
Brian had picked up the lamp and hurled it against the wall, asking how long he was supposed to feel guilty, that he had been just a kid too, who was completely traumatized about seeing his brother disappear in what seemed to be a bolt of lightning.
He’d held his index finger inches from William’s face, saying how tired he was for feeling responsible for him, and that he needed to take ownership for his actions for once in his damn life.
William had told both his brothers to go to hell and jumped in his Jeep. He’d meant to drive to the suburb of Bellevue and the condo of a girl he’d casually dated—dating being a prim word for it. But instead he’d passed her exit and kept driving west.
He’d realized it, then—how the weight of the world slowly lifted from his shoulders with every mile. The farther away he drove, the more he understood that the anxiety had a message for him: Get the hell out of Dodge. It had plagued him for months: a nagging feeling to escape, to move on. It was bold and determined, starting with a whisper and then shouting that he was in the wrong place and needed to leave. He’d tried to ignore it, but once he succumbed, he was almost euphoric.
He’d practically leapt off the interstate when he’d reached Little Rock. This is it, every membrane of his body had hummed. This is where you’re meant to be.
Even broke, with no job and no prospects, he’d felt the calmness. The sensation stayed with him, despite the longing for his family and living in a crappy trailer making minimum wage.
And who was he kidding? For the first time in his life, he was free. Free of speculation about what happened to him, free of the stares, free of the burden of being that UFO guy.
The nightmares, however, reminded him that some things you can’t outrun. Whether it was guilt for abandoning his family or the troubling headlines of the day soaking into his subconscious, the dreams were inescapable. But at least—unlike the anxiety and panic attacks that were always waiting and could linger for an hour—when he woke, it was a clean cut. And he had a job to go to that filled up the days, and books and baseball at night.
Now that life was over.
I’ve done it once. I can do it again, he thought. He’d rest until first light. Once he got what he needed from the trailer, mostly the cash he’d kept hidden in his closet, he’d head further south, maybe to Louisiana. Especially with all the storms they’ve been experiencing, it would be easy to get lost in New Orleans.
William put his hands behind his head. If the dreams did come tonight, at least there would be no one to hear him scream.
She could hear the footsteps of the knockoff Allen Edmonds echoing loudly across the marble floors of the Dirksen Senate Office Building. She knew without a doubt that it was Frank, and that meant he would be wearing the cheap shoes, designed to look expensive but with thin soles that would wear out soon because he wore them every single day. Even when he stood on the other side of her desk, sliding across the latest research on human trafficking in Tennessee, she could smell his feet.
Frank sweated a lot in her presence.
Kate Roseworth hoped to have several hours alone, given that a looming budget battle in the upcoming fall session promised yet another government shutdown. Her secretary and staff, including Frank, had gone home some time ago, which meant she could play some Leon Bridges and try to focus without interruption. She’d actually made some serious headway and was on the trail of what seemed to be some common-sense budget cuts that would be appreciated by her constituents. Her calculator was deep into an equation when she heard the footsteps.
“Come in, Frank.”
He could not hide the astonishment on his face that Kate had been able to identify him before he had even stepped inside. Her index finger diminished the volume just as Leon and his background singers were crooning into the first chorus of “River.” When she looked up to see that his eyes had changed from surprised to full-on puppy dog, she sighed.
She knew the look and the variations of it. The interns were the worst, the ones who elbowed their way to try and score a semester or two working for Washington Barbie. It was her least favorite of all the nicknames they didn’t think she knew about: Tennessee Tornado, Killer Kate and the Devil Wears Prada Pantsuits. Even with a master’s in public policy from Brown, a career as a policy wonk in Washington, and now a decade of service as a US senator, she still heard the whispers about herself behind the backs of her colleagues’ hands.
Kate knew how she appeared to Frank right now. Late night, sexy music, hair in a ponytail, glasses, and chewing on a pen. Hot For Teacher, she once found scrawled on a colleague’s fiscal notes, with an arrow pointing in the direction of her desk in the senate chamber.
Yes, Frank, that’s why I’m here so late. To seduce you. Come on over here and let’s read through some budget appropriations to really turn up the heat.
“What is it, Frank?” she said, turning back to her calculator.
He cleared his throat. “They found him, Senator.”
“Found who, Frank?”
“Your nephew.”
She saw him visibly flinch when she blinked and looked over her laptop at him. She didn’t mean to have the look; her mother always said it was a genetic trait she inherited from her father. It meant she gave a laser focus to whoever was speaking, her eyelids closing ever so slightly, with daggers glinting in her pupils.
“How do you know this?”
“Came across in an alert.” He held up his iPhone.
She glanced at her own phone. “I don’t see any alerts from the Post or CNN.”
He swallowed. “It wasn’t a news alert. It’s from… Hollywoodextra.”
The look changed now, and she saw him almost wince. That website had an almost criminal obsession with her family, frequently romantically linking her to actors and athletes, all of whom, in reality, requested meetings with her to discuss their environmental causes.
“Where is he? Is he OK?”
Please say he didn’t get a DUI.
“Little Rock. They didn’t say. It only read that they found him.”
Please say he’s not in jail.
“How? Did they source police?”