"Ah," Tricia said, but didn't elaborate. He studied her in quick glances, keeping his attention on the road. She wasn't scared. She wasn't offended. She was thoughtful. He relaxed.
"I don't know much about any art," she finally said. "I've always been more inclined to math. Logic. Computers and stuff. I like working in libraries because there's such order to everything, everything has a place. It's a numbers game. A book is broken down to its most basic and necessary parts, then catalogued precisely. The world is so full of knowledge, it's overwhelming. A library makes all that knowledge simple, immediate and knowable. Even a book of poetry gets turned into numbers."
"Math is art," Damon said. "It's a language. It's a different sort of poetry. It's philosophy with numbers instead of words."
"I suppose so," Tricia said.
"You could create a physics of fighting. You could write a formula for Fontina. A poem can be broken down to symmetry and chaos, playing against each other. Nothing is separate. Everything is art, in its own way."
Tricia turned to him again, a smile playing on her lips.
"You always talk like that, don't you?" she asked, not quite teasing.
"One of my worst traits, I'll admit," he said. "Hope it doesn't make you want to jump out of the car while it's still moving."
"No," she said. "I like it. It's … "
"Kind of funny, right?" he finished for her, flashing her another smile.
"No, no, not funny … " she said, blushing as though she'd insulted him.
"It is. I admit it, I sound like a bad indie film sometimes. I really don't take myself as seriously as it seems."
Now, her brow furrowed.
"No, really, I don't think it's that funny," she said. "I mean, sometimes, I guess, you sound a little … odd. But you just … you think before you say things. Not everyone does that. It's … it's refreshing."
"Well, I'm going to remind you that you said that in three days, when you're ready to put duct tape over my mouth," he said, trying to keep the mood light. Tricia chuckled and shook her head.
"Alright, big guy," she said. "I'll take your word for it. But for now, don't dumb yourself down. Not for my sake."
They settled back into silence while Tricia put a new CD on.
"Your DJ trial period is going very well," Damon said as Hank William's soulful, plaintive voice came through the speakers.
"Told ya so," Tricia said, preening slightly. She sighed and rolled her shoulders, shrinking back down into her seat while the abstract landscape continued its sweeping retreat. She hoped Damon believed her when she said that she liked his high-minded way of speaking.
She'd had enough of men, and women, who wanted to skim the surface until they hit land. Damon treated life like a deep sea diver, his mind moving through a world that was quiet and intense, beautifully and frighteningly fluid. Maybe it was her near-death experience. Maybe it was something that had always been inside her. Whatever it was, Tricia wanted to do more than dip her toes in that world. She wanted to be submerged.
As silence settled between them again, Damon stole quick glances at her. He had a question of his own to ask her, one that he knew wouldn't go down easy. But he needed the answer. He would never be able to move forward with her without it. He knew he ought to ask it sooner rather than later.
But he had a lot of driving yet to do that night, and he thought that for now, later would have to do. But he promised himself he'd ask by the end of the night. Before they went to sleep in their separate sleeping bags, under the same sky, he'd ask. He just hoped her answer would make things easier, instead of harder. The world was hard enough already.
10
Four hours got them to Richmond, Virginia, where they found a KOA campground off the highway. They lucked out and found a campsite far from the huge RVs and campers.
Tricia set up the tent while Damon found kindling for a fire and pulled some store-bought firewood from the trunk. As the fire built and began to crackle, they sat on a sanded-down log that served as a bench near the fire put.
"Tricia," Damon said, his voice low in the night. "I need to ask you something."
"Okay," Tricia said, feeling a sort of radiating unease.
"It's not a polite question," he said, words stilted. "Or a pleasant one."
"Okay," she said again, rising from the log and picking up a stick to poke at the flames.
"I want to get it out of the way now," he said. "Because we have a long drive ahead of us, and I don't want it lingering."
"Fine," Tricia said, hearing the impatience in her own voice.
"Do you blame me? Resent me? Us?"
Tricia looked at him from the far side of the fire, face blank.
"For what happened," he said. "It was our fault. We were the ones they were after, and we … "
"No," Tricia said, cutting him off before he could continue the unneeded explanation. She turned to look down at the fire, lifted and dropped a red-sewn log. "I don't blame you."
It was true. She didn't. Perhaps, sometimes, in her darkest moments, she did. Those times, she blamed everyone. But not for a long time had she felt resentment or anger towards Damon and his brothers. They were not responsible for anyone's actions but their own. And even if they had, unwittingly, created the circumstance in which she became a victim, they were also the ones who saved her.
"Good," Damon said. "That's settled then."
She eyed him.
"What would you have done – or said – if I said yes? If I said that I did blame you?" she asked. The question was so pointed she almost felt like she cut her mouth asking it. He didn't return her gaze.
"I don't know," he said. "I suppose I would have apologized. And tried to … make it up to you. I don't suppose there would have been any way for me to do that, but … "
A horrible thought ran through Tricia's head. He'd only brought her because he felt bad. He thought she blamed him. He wanted to "make it up to her". He didn't like her. He didn't want her company. He wanted to ease his burden of guilt.
"Do you feel guilty?" she asked, trying to keep the clip from her tone – and failing.
"Not really," he said, giving her a questioning glance. "I mean – of course, yes, I do. I feel guilt about … lots of things. But I've made peace with that guilt. It's not going anywhere. I can't change the past. I can't make it so they never touched you. I can't un-kill that man."
The words dropped flat, eaten up by the roaring fire. So many things unspoken between them. Things that could have stayed unspoken for a long time. But that was Damon. And that was what attracted her to him. He wouldn't live with the unspoken things. He would say the things no one else would.
"I've thought a lot about you," she said carefully. "And that."
"I'm not the sort of man who will take a life and not pay for it," he said. He looked up at her again. "But I would do it again."
"Oh," she said, trying to press away the bad thoughts that had assailed her and wouldn't leave. He did feel guilty. He brought her along to make himself feel better. It had nothing to do with her, who she was …
"Damon," Tricia said, poking her stick into the fire to shift a sparking branch. "What are we doing?"
The question was heavy, lay between them, unmovable.
"We're going to Miami," he said, voice flat. She shot him a look, her face half-lit in red by the fire. She looked lovely like that. His fists clenched. So selfish, he thought. So, so selfish.
"I know that," she said, frustrated. "You know what I mean. How did you get me to say yes? I mean, I don't even know why you're going to Miami."
"Business," he said, cringing when she turned away. He wasn't being fair to her, not at all. Her groan confirmed it. She left the stick leaning against the stone circle and plopped back down on the log beside him.
"You were more talkative before," she observed. "When you were trying to convince me to come."
"I know," he said through gritted teeth. "What I have to do is...complicated. And I told you why I wanted you to come. I like you. I feel like there's something between us."
She sighed, stretched her legs out.
"I know," she said, shaking her head. "I just keep thinking, how crazy am I being? I mean, I must not really be over anything if..."
Her voice trailed off and she buried her head in her hands. She had made a pretty serious habit of never saying she wasn't "over it".
"Who expects you to be over it?" Damon asked.
"Myself," she said, speaking into her own palms.
"Well," he said, pausing for effect, "stop."