"But--"
"Please."
Maybe it's my tone, maybe it's his own fear, or maybe it's just the ghostside, already starting to dig its claws into him, already getting under his skin. Finally, slowly, Larry nods. "All right, Rose. We'll keep going."
"Thank you." The dashboard is cool when I touch it again. I wonder when he'll notice that. "Let me tell you my version of the woman at the diner."
***
"She wasn't a cheerleader, although she was in high school. She liked to drive. She liked to watch other people drive. And she liked her boyfriend, who worked in the auto-shop, and fixed her car so that it ran like a fairy tale. The cheerleaders would never have let her get anywhere near them. She might have gotten them dirty.
"She was walking down the side of the road when the trucker pulled up next to her and asked if she needed a ride anywhere. She said yes, and that she'd really like to go somewhere to get something to eat. So he drove her to the truck stop diner. Only when they got there, she thanked him for the ride, and she went and sat with someone else. Another trucker. And after she ate her burger, she asked him for a ride."
Larry is watching me more than he's watching the road, now; he's watching with the sort of terrified understanding that only comes on by inches, only comes when you're not looking for it. He's starting to realize that something--that everything--is wrong.
"So he let her into his cab, and then they drove off together. But there was a crash. A terrible crash. He was killed, and she...she was never found."
"Rose..."
"Only a year later, a year to the day, that first trucker saw her walking down the road again. Same place, same stretch of road. He pulled over, and said he'd been afraid she died. She just smiled. Asked for a ride. And when he asked her if she'd stay in his truck this time, she said no; said she had another ride. Same thing happened. Accident, dead trucker, missing girl. And again, two years later, she shows up. By now the first trucker is starting to realize there's something wrong. So he pulls off the road when he sees her, and he demands to know: are you killing these boys? Are you doing this to them?"
"Rose--"
"And she looks at him and says, so sadly it about breaks his heart, 'No. I've never killed anyone. I just want to make sure that somebody's there to see that they get home.'"
This time his voice is just a whisper; this time, he understands. "Rose."
I offer him a smile as sad as Sunday in September. "I came to you for a reason, Larry. I'm just here to make sure that you can find the right roads. I'm only here to get you home."
***
Driving through the ghostside is easy, and Larry's rig knows the way. She travels light and faster than she ever did in life, finally free to corner on her own, to compensate for her driver when he can't focus through his tears. He only cries a while. Not as long as some, longer than others. That's fine. There's nothing wrong with crying when someone dies, not even when it's you. If you can't weep at your own funeral, when can you?
The ghostroad gets simpler, turns and curves fading into straight lines and dark exits. Finally, like an oasis, the bright neon of the Last Dance Diner appears up ahead and to the right. I reach over, squeeze Larry's wrist.
"This is my stop."
"Rose..."
"Yours is up ahead." The danger is past. Once they reach the Last Dance, they can find the rest of the way on their own, and I don't dare go any further--for me, the Last Dance is where the danger really begins. I don't know where that road ends, and until I'm finished with everything that needs doing, I don't want to find out. Besides, the Last Dance makes damn good malteds.
He pulls off the road, letting the engine idle as he looks at me. He looks younger than he did when we met. The ghostside is easing the years away. "Why me?"
"Because the crash was coming whether I was here or not, and sometimes people get lost on the road. Sometimes they just need someone to tell them what exits to take." I lean over, kiss his forehead--cool lips brushing cool skin--and open my door. "Good luck, Larry."
Larry looks at me in silence for a long while before he nods, and starts the engine up again. I slam my door, and the truck pulls away, driving down that long, straight stretch of road. And then it's gone, like a piece of tissue whipped away by the wind, and overhead, the stars start blinking back on. The wind picks up, and I'm cold again, falling out of the midnight and back into the twilight, where the air still tastes like apples.
Hunching my shoulders under the thin fabric of my jacket, I turn and start for the Last Dance Diner. Maybe Emma will be working tonight. She's usually willing to buy me a malt when the boss isn't looking.