Robin Wasserman - Sloth

She couldn’t face going home; the house was always either too full of people, noise, and clutter to think straight, or it was empty and too quiet.

So she’d driven away, following the familiar curves until she reached the spot that guaranteed her a quiet place to think. She felt guilty there, as if she were trespassing, especially in those moments when she was overcome by self-pity-it felt wrong, feeling sorry for herself, there of all places. But she couldn’t help it. And as time passed, it became the only place that could help.

The road curved, and the thin white cross appeared. Beth pulled her car onto the shoulder and parked. She hesitated for a moment, staring through the windshield at the small wooden cross stuck into the brush-covered ground, the withering bunches of flowers gathered around it. It looked almost lonely, dwarfed by the vast emptiness of the surrounding desert. From this distance she couldn’t see the name scratched into the wood, but she imagined she could. She had traced her fingers over the letters often enough.

Beth didn’t know who had erected the small memorial- Kaia’s father, from the few glimpses she’d gotten before he left town, didn’t seem the type. And there were few other candidates. She got out of the car and walked slowly over to the cross, then sat on the ground in front of it, not caring if she got dirt all over her jeans. She’d brought along her ancient duct-taped-together Discman, and now she switched it on, sliding the headphones over her head and tuning out the world.

The first time she’d come, she had wandered through the brush, looking for signs that something had happened here. And she’d found them-small spots of scorched earth, scratches and gouges in the ground, a smear of rubber on the road, a jagged chunk of metal, twisted and torn beyond recognition. But all of that was gone now; or, at least, Beth no longer had any urge to look. Now she just sat and stared, sometimes at the roughly engraved letters-just KAIA, no dates, no messages, no last name- sometimes at the empty road and still scenery, disturbed only by the occasional eighteen-wheeler barreling through, sometimes at the sky. She chose her music at random, though most of the CDs in her collection were weepy women, singer-songwriters warbling about lost love, so there was rarely much surprise. Today, however, she’d popped in an old Green Day album-something Adam had given her in hopes of giving her some kind of music makeover. She’d never really listened to it. But it was loud and angry, and today, somehow, it worked.

It’s not my fault, she told herself, trying to dislodge the mountain of guilt. There was no cause and effect. No connection. She’d drugged Harper; Kaia had crashed a car. It was a coincidence, nothing more. A bad driver, speeding down the road, slamming into the BMW, disappearing. It was an accident-just bad luck. Not my fault. Harper was fine. Harper was healthy. Whatever Beth had done, there’d been no permanent consequences.

What happened to Kaia was permanent, but- not my fault.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there when she felt the hand on her shoulder. She tipped her head back and looked up into the deepest brown eyes she’d ever seen. She took in his warm, crooked smile, the tendrils of dark, curly hair that flopped over his eyes, the smudge of grease just above his chin… and then it all came together into a familiar face, and she jerked away.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm and gravelly, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. “Sorry.” He sat down next to her. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Beth said, pulling off her headphones. She couldn’t look at him.

Reed flicked his eyes toward the cross. “I didn’t know anyone else came here,” he said. “Didn’t think anyone cared.” He spoke slowly, pausing between each word as if part of him preferred the silence. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

Beth couldn’t bring herself to say that they weren’t, that Kaia had zoomed to the top of Beth’s enemies list by sleeping with her boyfriend; she couldn’t admit the hours she’d spent wishing Kaia Sellers out of existence. But she also didn’t want to lie.

“I’m Reed,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “Maybe you don’t remember, but we met a while ago, before…” He reached for her hand and shook it, an oddly formal gesture considering they were sitting across from each other in the dirt on the side of a highway. His hand was warm, his grip tight; she didn’t want to let go.

“I remember.” She’d been upset, and he’d cheered her up, somehow-she couldn’t remember now. Couldn’t even remember what she’d been so upset about. It felt like a different lifetime. “I should go,” she said suddenly, realizing he probably wanted to be alone-she didn’t belong. “Do you want me to-?”

“I should take off,” he said at the same time. They both stopped talking and laughed, then, shooting a guilty glance at the thin, white cross, fell into silence again.

“Really, I should go,” she insisted.

“No, stay.” He sighed and rubbed a worn spot on the knee of his jeans where the denim was about to tear apart. “Please.”

Beth nodded, feeling her chest tighten. It’s not my fault. I didn’t do this.

The sun was already setting, but it was a cloudless day, so there was no brilliant sunset, only a steadily deepening haze as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Reed dug around in his pocket and pulled out a flat, grayish stone, its edges rounded and its top streaked with red. He stood up, placed it in front of the cross, where it was lost amid the bouquets of dying flowers. Then he sat down again and gave Beth a half smile. “I saw it, somewhere, that people do that. And I just thought it was, you know, a good thing to do.”

Beth opened her mouth to say, “That’s nice.” Instead, she let out a gasping sob and burst into tears.

“Hey,” Reed said, sounding alarmed. “Hey, don’t-”

Beth had squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to stop, so she didn’t see him leaning toward her. She just felt his strong arms pull her in, pressing her head against his chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “It’s okay.”

He smelled sweet and smoky and, as her gasps quieted, she could hear his heart beat.

“I miss her too,” he whispered.

Oh, God.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, her voice muffled by his shirt. She pushed him away and stood up. “I have to go, I’m sorry.” By the time he stood up, she’d already started running toward her car, tears blinding her vision.

She didn’t know if he was trying to follow her and, as she started the car and tore out onto the road, she forced herself not to care. She never should have allowed him to comfort her like that, and she couldn’t let it happen again.

She didn’t deserve it.

Harper jerked awake, her breath ragged, sweat pouring down her face. She turned over to check the clock: 2:46 a.m. Four hours to go before the rest of the house woke up, and she would hear some noises other than her pounding heart.

She felt like she was still trapped in the nightmare; the dark shadows of her room seemed alive with possibility, as if the childhood monsters she’d once feared had returned to haunt her. But that was just the dream talking, she reminded herself. And nightmares weren’t real.

Except.

Except that her nightmares were memories that fled as soon as she opened her eyes. All she had were glimpses: the scream of tearing metal, the stench of smoke, the heavy weight on her chest that made it hurt to breathe. Her pillow was damp, maybe with sweat-she rubbed her eyes- maybe with tears.

She should be used to it by now, and she ran through her regular routine: Lying still, on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting her breaths. It was supposed to relax her and lull her back to sleep, but this time, it relaxed some protective barrier in her mind, and the images of her nightmare came flooding back.