Hansel 3(12)

The first two hours we are on the road, moving out of Nevada and into southwestern Utah, he says nothing to me. I don’t know what to think about him—what to think about how he feels for me; about how he treated me before I got out at the casino—so I’m trying hard not to.

I slip my headphones in my ears and listen to some Broken Bells on my phone. I exchange a few texts with my sisters. When Laura asks if I’m home yet, I tell her “yes.” She doesn’t live near me. Not like she’ll know. And if she thinks I’m lying, she’ll assume they worst. They all will. Luckily, Lana doesn’t ask. She says she’s having fun on her honeymoon and that’s it.

Mom and dad haven’t called or text’d, so I don’t bother texting them. Now that my dad’s retired, they’re kind of withdrawn from the world. Not in a bad way; just in the sort of way which means they never know which day is Monday. Good for them. They retired to Gulf Shores, so they won’t know I didn’t come home on time.

Utah is a pretty state. Lots of rocky, cliff-y mountains. Not huge, but still really pretty. Seeing the mountains with Hansel—Edgar—by my side is kind of a head trip. There was no window in my room at Mother’s, so I never saw the majestic Rockies all around us, but I knew that they were there.

The sun starts going down behind us, casting everything in a soft, red glow. I turn the music down because I’m curious about his choice of radio. I’m a little surprised to find he’s listening to something on National Public Radio. I can’t tell for sure, having only listened for a minute or two, but I think they’re discussing the stock market.

I dare a glance over at him, and happen to get a full-on glance at the thick scar on the inside of his left wrist. I used to touch it every blue moon—just the barest stroke of my fingertip over the pink line. I didn’t do it often, because I could tell it made him tense, but once or twice, after I touched it, he twined his fingers tightly through mine.

I’m thinking about that when I realize I have the answer to my question from earlier: He did know I was me. He says he didn’t remember seeing me, Leah, last night at the fight and after, but I can verify that at least part of him remembered. Part of the NDA mentioned him always wearing gloves, and me not trying to take them off, but this morning when he came into the room, he wasn’t wearing gloves. I feel sure he would’ve been had he thought I was some random girl named Lauren.

I bite my lip, because suddenly, I really want to talk to him. I pull my headphones out of my ears and make a show of tucking them, and my phone, into my purse. As I lean down to set the purse on the floor, his gaze rolls over me.

His eyes are cool and distant. I try not to be disappointed.

“The NDA applies,” he tells me briskly, over the droning voice of the NPR anchor.

I frown at him. “Um…huh?”

“Your encounters with me, sexual or otherwise, are protected by the NDA. That includes this trip.”

I cross my arms over my abs and look out at the winding road. “Okay.”

A minute or two later, as we drive between two peaks, he says, “You didn’t find me. Understand? No finding Hansel or any of that shit. I don’t want to see myself on 20/20.”

I exhale slowly and try to hold onto my temper. “If you think I would do that, you don’t know me at all.”

“One look around,” he says, ignoring me. “Then we’re driving into Denver and I’m dropping you at the airport.”

I shake my head. “I want to spend the night.”

“That’s not an offer.”

So strange how his voice is so much the same, and so different, too. We’re driving past a small town, lit up in the dusk, and I turn my eyes toward it so I don’t have to look at him and feel so disappointed.

“I assume we’ll be stopping at a hotel?” I ask my window.

“You assume correctly.”

I turn away from the window and back toward the front windshield just in time to see a sign letting us know that Denver is 500-something miles away. So we’ll be driving more tonight, and then tomorrow morning, too.

I flick my eyes at him. He seems perfectly content to stew, but I can’t go that long without talking. If he thinks he’s just going to sit there listening to boring “market” news, he’s wrong.

I rub some lip gloss on my lips and smooth my hair down. Then I look at him as if he’s normal; as if this is normal. “When did you buy it?” I say in an easy tone.

My words hang in the air only for a moment. He turns down the radio a little and, with a brief glance my way, says, “Eight years ago.”