"Did you do any other drugs?"
"No."
"Do you do any other drugs?"
"No. Just the ones you know about."
"Ho—" (she laughs).
"I’m sorry," I say. "I’m not perfect." But she’ll never look at me the same way. There will always be part of me that she thinks is crazy, this place where she thinks we’ve departed, gone separate ways. This area that separates us..is growing. If I had invited her, then she would have done it with me—or talked me out of it. We would still be together. We would not be in the parking lot of Carroll High School in Riverside.
"I don’t want you to do any more drugs," she says.
"Even drinking?"
"We need to meditate," she says. "Not here. Later."
"Do you want breakfast?"
"No."
"Do you want to go somewhere?"
"No."
(Can I buy you anything? Can I buy you the most expensive dinner you’ve ever had? Can I buy you something that will make you love me the way you did a day ago?) It’s a simple line of thinking, but that’s the way it goes.
"Let’s just go home. I want to sleep." She wipes her nose.
I open the glove compartment. There’s fast food napkins inside. She doesn’t use them.
Her nose is on her sleeve. "Just take me home."
I turn the key in the ignition. My hands are on the steering wheel. I breathe out. There’s something I’m supposed to learn from this moment. I don’t know what it is. I know what I’m not supposed to do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Where do you go with that?
I look at Jules. She won’t look at me. She’s looking out the window, wet sleeves, knees pulled up underneath the seatbelt. She locks the doors.
"You want me to take you home?"
She looks at me: terrible. There’s a burning in her eyes, in her face, a pain all across her forehead. I can see her veins, and she sniffles again. She wipes her nose, her eyes. She uses my sleeve this time. "Do I want you to take me home?" she says. "Have you learned nothing about me? Do you know how I feel about you?"
I can’t do this. "If you want me to take you to your place—" I start.
"Listen. Listen." She’s on my lap again, seatbelt dangling. She snorts. Neither of us care. "I want you to take me home..to your house. I’m with you," she says. "I never want you to leave me again. Are you going to leave me?"
"No." I whisper it.
"Good." She grabs my chest. You’re my baby. I need this. I don’t want you to take some drug that’s going to paralyze you or mess up your brain." She’s gripping my face. "I love you. You’re my part," she says, and then it drops into nonsense.
I hate fucking Riverside.