Page 74 of On Dry Land

“A pay phone. I⁠—”

“Tell me what’s happened, Spencer.” There’s a hint of anger in his tone now, although none of it feels aimed at me. Not when he still says my name in a soft caress, the sharper letters softened into something tender.

“I lost my phone, and I…” I what? I want a hug? I want to come back and put on a sweatshirt that smells like you and watch men with razor blades on their feet try to score goals on one another? I want to ask if it’s okay if I come back early. Please let me come back. Please, please, please. “I just wanted to say hi and ask if—” The artificial voice tells me I’m running out of time. “I’ve got to go,” I whisper.

“Put another quarter in,” he demands. I shake my head. I don’t have another quarter. His voice is less anger and more panic now. “Spencer, do not hang up this phone.”

“How are you? Is Demon okay?” I’m feeling a touch of panic myself as I think about all the things I’d like to know and how little time I have left to hear them.

“Come see for yourself.” Resting a forearm across the top of the phone box, I put my forehead down. Is it really so easy as that? Dryden, in a voice that sounds deceptively calm, like he’s purposely trying to tone down the frustration, adds, “Tell me where you’re calling from. I’ll come meet you. You shouldn’t be without a phone, Spencer.”

I don’t like asking too much of people. When someone inquires how I am, they don’t want to be burdened with the truth. They don’t want me to get my pain on them. They want an answer that makes them feel good for asking and doesn’t leave them carrying an emotional load in addition to their own. Do you need anything and how are you aren’t questions that can be answered honestly. Because everyone needs something, and I suspect everyone is probably not fine. Nobody wants me to be a drain on them less than I do. I usually stay silent. I usually lie.

But the words won’t come. They stay stuck in my throat, sore and bruised and unused to asking for help. He’s already done so much for me. I shouldn’t ask for this.

“Spencer,” he repeats.

“The pay phone near the Lincolnshire apartment building in Fensburough,” I whisper.

“Stay the—” The line clicks off, dial tone vibrating in my ear as the call is cut short.

Chapter Twenty-Four

DRYDEN

Demon mewls when I pick her up from where she was stretched out on my stomach and deposit her onto the bed. Sliding off, I stare down at my phone on my way to the bathroom, urging it to ring again. Leaving it on the counter, I pee and wash my hands, splashing cool water onto my face. Fensburough. I’ve never been there before, but, as most people from this area are, I’m familiar with the relative distances from here to anywhere considered a “big city.” It’s not a short drive.

My heartbeat flutters rapidly as I yank open the wardrobe and pull out a jacket. I should change out of the sweats I’m wearing. I should stop and consider for a moment instead of carelessly acting. I should hurry because the sun is going down, Fensburough is hours away, and Spencer sounded like he’d been walking along a very fine ledge and was uncertain of his footing.

I leave Demon kneading her little paws into my pillow. The Porsche rumbles to life, and I check the gas gauge as I click my seat belt into place, cursing under my breath when it’s low. I’ll have to stop. We’re too far away from anything to make it far on a third of a tank, and I don’t want to be searching for a gas station in the dark on unfamiliar streets when I get there.

Davy waves at me through the window of the convenience store as I stand impatiently next to the gas pump, watching the numbers tick steadily upward. I nod back and then ignore him, conscious of his eyes on me as I stand there. I probably look strange, as a person who is usually put together, in my Colorado sweatshirt and gray joggers tucked into the tops of my work boots. And sure enough, the pump has barely clicked off before his curiosity gets the better of him.

“Everything okay?” he shouts at me across the parking lot, artificial light spilling around him through the open doorway, lottery numbers displayed in neon beside him.

I don’t answer. He’s probably wondering if I’m having some sort of mental crisis, and I’m wondering why I can’t just go through it in peace. Slamming the door of the Porsche, I turn the ignition and watch the gas gauge flip over to full before pulling out from under the shelter. I glance up in the rearview, watching as Davy disappears back into the store, probably on his way to call his closest relatives and let them know what my pajamas look like.

I wait until I’m leaving Siren’s Point before I push it. The engine growls as the speedometer rises steadily from forty to sixty, the sound of the tires spraying up water on the wet asphalt accompanied by the slide of the windshield wipers as it starts to rain. I can’t stop looking at the dashboard clock. I can’t stop watching the estimated time until arrival in the map application I have pulled up on my phone, propped in the cup holder. I push my foot down a little harder, bringing the car up to sixty-five. I told him to stay, but at what point will he no longer be able to wait and leave? I glance down at the screen of my phone, fingers clenched hard enough around the steering wheel for the leather stitching to bite into my skin. Three hours.

I make it thirty minutes driving twenty over the speed limit before I hit traffic. Easing the Porsche to a smooth stop behind a minivan, I wonder if I’m about to enter cardiac arrest. There’s something abnormal in the way it’s hurting to breathe and how erratically my pulse is jumping. The rain pings off the hood of my car, droplets scattering over the windshield as it begins to fall harder, drumming rhythmically on the roof. I allow the Porsche to coast, no gas needed to drive five miles per hour. When I check the map app, the time until arrival has changed. Four hours.

Red and blue lights flash, illuminating the inside of the vehicle as they rotate. I barely pay attention to the accident as I pass, too concerned with keeping the contents of my stomach inside my body. The moment I can, I accelerate, swerving around the car in front of me to take advantage of an open left lane. Several cars have their hazards on as they drive ten under the speed limit, either unused to or unskilled at driving in the dark in the rain. It’s possible I’m going to get pulled over, and even more possible that I don’t give a fuck. I put more gas on, pushing the speed up to eighty. The Porsche hums, built for this and rarely allowed to run.

Four hours might as well be an eternity. Too long to count on Spencer standing in place to wait for me and far, far too long to be alone with myself as I try desperately to get there. Shiloh was right. I lost nothing in calling Spencer, although I gained a sleepless night, sick with worry over that disconnected phone and his absence from all social media. And I’d looked. I’d looked at them all, noting dates and time stamps and staring at the little thumbnails of his handsome face, frozen with a stretch of open road behind him. I am good at a lot of things, but none so much as handling things. I’m not the type to panic. I don’t get stressed or blow little things out of proportion. I just fix the problem and move on.

Spencer’s sudden absence hadn’t felt like a problem I could fix. It had felt like an end-of-world catastrophe—a meteor on its way to Earth and nothing to do but stand and wait for the impact. I’d lain awake, agonizing over the possible reasons he’d gone dark and unable to come up with a workable solution. I knew where I’d left him and also knew just how many possible routes to the national park there were from that spot. I’d wanted to drive around to look for him and recognized the horrible futility of such an endeavor. It felt like there was nothing to do but give up. Spencer was gone, and for the meantime, there wasn’t a thing I could do to find him.

But now I know. I know exactly where he is and how to get there. I know his voice sounded like tears and weariness and that he lied when he said he lost his cell phone. I know it’s raining and cold, and he’s too stubborn to find a hotel for a night. I know that maybe he doesn’t need help, or me, and hope that he doesn’t turn away from either.

Fensburough is, in my humble opinion, a shithole. Trash litters the gutters as I drive slowly through the residential streets when I get there, following the directions of the map application. Despite the weather, there are a lot of people around. A lot of people standing together, smoke pluming out from their mouths as they exhale, watching me as I drive by. Every building I pass seems to be in a state of disrepair. One house has a pride flag displayed on the porch and a slur spray-painted across the front door.

I frown as I watch the map bring me closer and closer to the Lincolnshire apartments. It’s a nicer part of town than the one where I entered, but the bar feels as though it was set fairly low. I don’t spend a lot of time being thankful for the town I live in, but perhaps this is my sign to start practicing that gratitude.

I coast to a stop in front of the apartment building, squinting through the dark, stomach cramping at the sight of the pay phone and the empty sidewalk around it. Bringing the Porsche slowly to the curb, I idle and consider my options. Parking and walking the nearby streets on foot seems the most worthwhile option, while also being the one most likely to end in being stranded. Something tells me a Porsche sitting on the side of the road here is as good as painting a bullseye on the back window and asking for it to be stolen.

Fingers tapping the wheel, eyes still on the pay phone, I think. Perhaps he hasn’t gone far. Perhaps he’s merely gone in search of a place to get out of the rain, a place to feel more secure than standing on an open sidewalk. Easing the Porsche forward, I pull slowly away from the curb. I’ll drive down the streets I can reach by car and park to walk on foot the places I can’t.

It’s not easy to see through the sluice of rain down the windows, vision further impaired by how dark it is and how damnably bad the streets are lit. Only one in every handful of streetlamps is illuminated, making the shadows deeper and my job that much harder. Twenty minutes pass, and I begin to feel like I’ve got a steady electrical current running under my skin. I didn’t come this far to fail.