together. They could look for the craziest church signs for her to paint and he could take pictures. They high-fived, but Nikki wasn’t sure if they were really serious about it.
The next time they spoke, he called while she was working late at her studio. She’d been so absorbed in the act of painting a Z that she forgot she’d hung another piece of glass from the ceiling. When she bolted across the room to answer her phone, she smashed headfirst into it. The sheet shattered into pieces, cut her cheek and gave her a swollen lip. She pressed her hand to the top of her head and discovered another cut on her scalp. The bright red blood on her fingertips reminded her of how she’d dyed her hair fire engine red for her high school prom.
Nikki had stitches the first time she and Thomas slept together. She bowed her head and showed them to him and he touched the wound gingerly, felt the raised railroad of dark thread.
Day 11: Bourbon and orange soda.
Nikki turned twenty-two while they drove between Athens and Savannah. She had spotty cell phone coverage and kept missing calls from people who didn’t know she was away or, if they knew, were fuzzy on the details.
Her brother called. “Are you okay?” he asked in his voice mail message. “What are you doing in the Smoky Mountains anyway?”
She hadn’t spoken to him since the conversation at the campsite and by the time she heard from him, the mountains, their dampness and trees and green, seemed long ago. He must’ve been imagining her camping, fresh-faced and roughing it, while in reality she and Thomas had left that campsite quickly, annoyed by loud families staying near them. Instead of finding other places to camp, they kept sleeping in shoddy motels across Georgia. They thought they would camp more, but hadn’t anticipated the sheer heat of a Southern summer and spent more time than expected sussing out cheap, air conditioned lodging.
Thomas and Nikki stepped out of the car to buy fruit from a roadside stand. The heat was so astounding that Nikki gasped. She ate an unwashed warm peach and threw the pit onto the road. They had a bottle of Maker’s Mark, the seal unbroken, its red wax melted and smeared all over the top like congealed blood. Before getting back into the car Thomas poured some bourbon in a plastic cup and Nikki drank most of it quickly.
“Happy birthday to me,” she sang.
Thomas took her face in his hands and squeezed her cheeks. She could smell the bourbon and peaches between them. They stared at each other and he kissed her nose. He hadn’t shaved since they left and the scruff of his beard scraped against her skin.
Day 12: Outside in the dark I looked down and saw black spots. They started moving. Cockroaches.
On their roadtrip, Nikki wanted to keep records of what they did, but she couldn’t bring herself to write full paragraphs in her journal, so she’d scrawl certain words: catfish, rain on the windshields, wet socks . Sometimes more than that. A description of the crabs on the beach at night, maybe, or how the Spanish moss that hung in lazy drapes from the trees in Savannah was used to stuff pillows.
She didn’t write anything concrete about her days, no real narrative, and she definitely didn’t write about the rest of her birthday, how they’d stayed in a motel in Tybee Beach outside of Savannah because they couldn’t afford anything in town. They’d walked to the beach with the rest of the Maker’s Mark. Thomas finished it off too quickly and told her that he’d slept with someone a few days before they’d left for their trip. Twice, actually.
“Why’d you do that?” Nikki asked. Her stomach hurt.
“I don’t know,” he said. He sat with his legs apart, his head hanging between them, heavy. She thought of a scene they’d witnessed on their first night in Nashville on Music Row: a woman, drunk and stumbling, crying, trailing after a man and saying, you broke my heart, you broke my heart . A country song.
“I
The next time they spoke, he called while she was working late at her studio. She’d been so absorbed in the act of painting a Z that she forgot she’d hung another piece of glass from the ceiling. When she bolted across the room to answer her phone, she smashed headfirst into it. The sheet shattered into pieces, cut her cheek and gave her a swollen lip. She pressed her hand to the top of her head and discovered another cut on her scalp. The bright red blood on her fingertips reminded her of how she’d dyed her hair fire engine red for her high school prom.
Nikki had stitches the first time she and Thomas slept together. She bowed her head and showed them to him and he touched the wound gingerly, felt the raised railroad of dark thread.
Day 11: Bourbon and orange soda.
Nikki turned twenty-two while they drove between Athens and Savannah. She had spotty cell phone coverage and kept missing calls from people who didn’t know she was away or, if they knew, were fuzzy on the details.
Her brother called. “Are you okay?” he asked in his voice mail message. “What are you doing in the Smoky Mountains anyway?”
She hadn’t spoken to him since the conversation at the campsite and by the time she heard from him, the mountains, their dampness and trees and green, seemed long ago. He must’ve been imagining her camping, fresh-faced and roughing it, while in reality she and Thomas had left that campsite quickly, annoyed by loud families staying near them. Instead of finding other places to camp, they kept sleeping in shoddy motels across Georgia. They thought they would camp more, but hadn’t anticipated the sheer heat of a Southern summer and spent more time than expected sussing out cheap, air conditioned lodging.
Thomas and Nikki stepped out of the car to buy fruit from a roadside stand. The heat was so astounding that Nikki gasped. She ate an unwashed warm peach and threw the pit onto the road. They had a bottle of Maker’s Mark, the seal unbroken, its red wax melted and smeared all over the top like congealed blood. Before getting back into the car Thomas poured some bourbon in a plastic cup and Nikki drank most of it quickly.
“Happy birthday to me,” she sang.
Thomas took her face in his hands and squeezed her cheeks. She could smell the bourbon and peaches between them. They stared at each other and he kissed her nose. He hadn’t shaved since they left and the scruff of his beard scraped against her skin.
Day 12: Outside in the dark I looked down and saw black spots. They started moving. Cockroaches.
On their roadtrip, Nikki wanted to keep records of what they did, but she couldn’t bring herself to write full paragraphs in her journal, so she’d scrawl certain words: catfish, rain on the windshields, wet socks . Sometimes more than that. A description of the crabs on the beach at night, maybe, or how the Spanish moss that hung in lazy drapes from the trees in Savannah was used to stuff pillows.
She didn’t write anything concrete about her days, no real narrative, and she definitely didn’t write about the rest of her birthday, how they’d stayed in a motel in Tybee Beach outside of Savannah because they couldn’t afford anything in town. They’d walked to the beach with the rest of the Maker’s Mark. Thomas finished it off too quickly and told her that he’d slept with someone a few days before they’d left for their trip. Twice, actually.
“Why’d you do that?” Nikki asked. Her stomach hurt.
“I don’t know,” he said. He sat with his legs apart, his head hanging between them, heavy. She thought of a scene they’d witnessed on their first night in Nashville on Music Row: a woman, drunk and stumbling, crying, trailing after a man and saying, you broke my heart, you broke my heart . A country song.
“I
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