[28]

Giving Up

"Penny for your thoughts." Wade leaned his right arm over the center console of the vehicle to nudge Skipper's elbow. The sudden contact caused her head to make a small jerking motion as she tore her gaze from the window through which she'd been watching dark grey clouds accumulate. 

    "Nope. I sell 'em for a dollar," came her response. 

   In one swift, determined motion, Wade pulled his wallet out and shoved a crumpled one at her. "Paid. Now. Your thoughts."

    Skipper stared at the currency in a sort of shocked confusion, unsure what to think now. How was she supposed to tell him her thoughts if she couldn't think? Why did he even want to know? This wasn't like him! Usually, it was the other way around. Usually, she was pestering him for information and attention. Just trying to get him to show more than a frown.

    With a great heaving shrug, she let her breath slowly escape her nostrils. Her breathing came off sounding a lot more labored than usual, and even she could pick up on that. The pieces started coming together when she realized this; since arriving back in America, she had been rather withdrawn the past few days. That was unusual. At least, it would have seemed unusual to him. He'd been respectful about it, but maybe he had noticed she wasn't herself lately. Maybe that was why he was asking about her thoughts. 

    Was he seriously trying to find out whether or not she was okay?

    As if validating and answering the questions in her mind, Wade's words gently disturbed the air. "You look so lost. Do I need to pay another dollar to make you talk? I didn't realize you were coin-operated."

    "This isn't a coin." She lifted the dollar and attempted a watery smirk. He rolled his eyes and leaned forward to switch on the headlights and windshield wipers as the clouds burst into tears.

   "It's still money. Whatever."

   "You don't need to pay me anything. I'm the one paying you, remember?" A slight frown twisted her brow and Wade shook his head, gesturing to the bill in her hand.

   "That's for your thoughts. You've been way too calm and quiet and that's not normal. You haven't even threatened me in, like...three days? Are you feeling sicker?"

   Though his tone was light and playful, a deep concern was masked beneath it. Skipper picked up on this and felt a tinge of guilt. But what did she even have to be guilty for? She shoved it aside with a rapid shake of her head before turning her attention back to the window, gazing at the rain as if Wade had never spoken to her. It wasn't exactly her intention to ignore him, she just didn't know what to think or feel right now.

    In a way, she felt a lot like the rain. Or, more specifically, the clouds themselves—something that had so much energy to pour forth, and once spent it would be evaporated into nothing. Never to be seen. No one would know, or care, or give it a second thought. Because death is just one of those inevitable things that happens to all of us, and in the grand scheme of things, so many are dying that no one knows about. 

    A stray tear crawled from her eyelid, bubbling up an trailing down her cheek. Wade bit his lip in an apologetic manner, as though he had been the cause of her tears. In truth, it was merely her internal conflict that was eating at her. So much happened below the surface of her being that she never expressed, and sometimes it just built up to these little breaking points. She considered it normal, not something to be ashamed of.

    Rather than prod her for anything, Wade shifted his focus to the rain as well. They'd been stationary in a McDonald's parking lot since stopping off for a late lunch.

    But it was now hours since then, and here in the parking lot they remained. Listening to the rain, watching it fall. Wade continued to say nothing. If Skipper was not going to talk, he wouldn't make her. He knew her enough to know that even if he tried, he couldn't make her do anything anyway. Instead he chose to rack his mind, searching his memory to see if he could locate an exact time he noted the change in her demeanor. She'd been rather sullen since returning to the States from Mexico. Perhaps that was when it had started? Though he could distinctly remember each day, it was all a blur when he tried to pinpoint when she'd changed. 

   As sudden as the clap of thunder that was now interrupting the silence, Wade thought of something.

   "Give me your phone." It was an absolute demand, and he held a hand out to enhance this fact. Still not looking at him, the girl plunked the device into Wade's palm. He turned it on and hesitated, "What's your password?"

    She told him, a robotic monotone reciting a jumbled mess of letters, numbers and symbols. He typed it in and went straight for her Instagram. She hadn't posted in a week or so, as far as he could see. She had a lot of followers. Her posts were pretty, and inspiring. There was this rebellious, fresh optimism to everything she posted. 

    However, he chose to dig deeper. Scrolling through the comments, he was surprised to see how much hate there was. In fact, the further he dug, the worse it got. These people were so toxic. Knowing both the benefits and dangers of social media, Wade felt something inside him sink. Skipper had been consumed in a false belief that even these cruel people cared; at least they cared enough to like her posts, though they treated her like absolute refuse. 

    It wasn't right.

    "I'm not going to post anymore," Skipper's shaky voice interrupted his fast-building angry thoughts. 

    Setting the phone down like it was a bomb, Wade quickly got a reign on himself and told Skipper to look at him. She reluctantly did so, face stained and puffy from tears.

    "They want you to say that. Are you going to let them dictate your life to you? Of course I understand, unhealthy things need to be cut off and removed...heh, they're like cancer, aren't they?" His words tumbled out in a rush, ranging from stern to gentle. Skipper wrung her hands in her lap and sniffled. She knew he was right, and she shouldn't allow others' opinions to dictate what she did or didn't do. But then, wasn't she allowing Wade's opinion to influence her just now?

    No, she told herself, I am keeping an open mind. He's logic amidst my hysteria. 

    "It's up to you whether you quit or not, that's not my decision to make. But I don't think you should let them win. If you quit now, they will rejoice for driving you to your digital death."

    His words hit like a truck and she burst into massive sobs, burying her face in her hands. Wade bit his lip, sympathy saturating his being. Normally it upset him if she cried, or if he made her cry, but right now he recognized that she'd been emotionally constipated and just needed to let it all go. Reaching past her, he took her travel blanket from the floor near her feet, and shook it out before gently draping it around her. A part of him knew that a hug would be comforting, but he wasn't a touchy guy. He believed that space was good for healing, though he understood that wasn't the way it worked for everybody. Not all the time.

    They weren't far from his home in Sarasota, maybe a few hours out. He quietly set her phone in the cupholder, turned on the classical station and pulled the SUV out of the parking lot. Skipper cried for at least an hour before falling asleep from the exhausting practice. When she awoke they were at Wade's house, and he had already unloaded their luggage and brought it inside. He was waiting in the garage with Charles, who was quite happy to be home. The passenger door was open. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, Skipper rubbed her puffy eyes and stepped out of the vehicle. She followed Wade into the house. It was a nice open floor plan, with tile in the kitchen and white carpet in the other rooms. She wondered how he managed to keep it so clean with an anteater in the house. 

Maybe it was only this clean because he'd been abroad.

   Wade led her to the kitchen and gestured her to sit at the counter; a white marble fixture that was pristine enough to reflect her face. Shaking, she sat on the plush leather cushion of a wrought-iron stool, and folded her arms on the counter before resting her head on them. Wade washed his hands and gave her a glass of water, asking if she was hungry at all. She shrugged, not really sure. Could he cook? His kitchen looked like something one might see in those televised cooking shows. Everything was labeled, organized, pristine. For someone who seemed so chill and unbothered, Wade clearly was fond of structure. 

    She supposed she should have known that about him, but right now she was too exhausted to care. 

    "Probably not the best time to ask, but would you like a strawberry daiquiri?" Wade was pulling various things from what appeared to be his adult drinks cabinet. Skipper considered this, and determined that she would like one. Not just because it might help take her mind off her troubles, but because she was actually quite fond of the drink. Not enough to be intemperate, of course, but it was probably her favorite.

    "Sure," she sighed, lifting her head a little. Wade smiled and went about preparing it for her, mixing things like an expert. When he slid it over to her, she took a sip. He leaned against one of the other counters, his own drink in hand. He watched as her eyes lit up at the flavor.

   "Wow." She almost laughed, took another, longer sip. "That's good."

    He smiled–an actual smile, not a smirk. It softened his often brooding, unapproachable features. Skipper smiled back, and she muttered a faint thank you. He wasn't the best at comforting people, but he was definitely better than many. 

     And boy did he know how to make a strawberry daiquiri.

    As he led her into the living room, Skipper took in the cool grays and whites of Wade's house. Everything matched, everything was clean and neatly in place, and everything was relaxing. He had framed black-and-white prints of dewy grass and pebbles on the walls, and a photograph of a much younger Charles sat center on the white mantle of what used to be a fireplace.

The living room and kitchen were adjacent to the door leading to the garage, and beyond that was a sort of round hallway that led to a bathroom and the laundry. Wade had taken their luggage there to be washed. 

    "I'll give you the grand tour after supper," Wade said in a gentle voice, observing as she looked around. "But the couch is there." He gently guided her to the couch. She flushed and mumbled some excuse, but he didn't hear it. Instead he set his drink on the coffee table, went to check on Charles, then preheated the oven. He'd start supper in a bit. After this he went to move the clean laundry to the drier, then returned to recline on the opposite end of the couch. 

    They sat in silence, both of them nursing their drinks, falling into tranquility. Wade kept an eye on Skipper to make sure she wasn't drinking too quickly. He didn't see her as the type to do so, but that didn't mean he wanted her to use this as a way to drown her pain. 

    To his relief, she took slow savoring sips and continued to look around her. After awhile she set down her glass—which was still rather full—and curled up against the armrest of the couch. Wade took this as his cue to start supper, knowing she'd be hungry after sleeping so much. He brought their drinks back to the kitchen and set them in the fridge before rolling up his sleeves, washing his hands, and preparing the meal.

    Homemade pizza sounded good to him.

    When it was ready, he carried everything into the living room and laid it out on the coffee table. Skipper sat up and accepted the plate he handed to her, then he asked if she'd like to play video games or watch a movie while they ate.

    "Show me your rom-com collection," she answered through a bite of hot pizza, waving a hand over her mouth to cool it. Smirking, Wade crossed the room to the television, beneath which was an organized shelf of movies. He listed them off to her, and she only responded when one in particular piqued her interest. 

    With this settled, he inserted the disk and returned to the couch.

    "I can't believe you've never seen this one," he admonished. "It's literally one of the best ones out there."

    She simply gave a shrug, eating pizza and sipping her daiquiri in rotation. The rain outside was providing a soothing backdrop, along with the movie onscreen. The couch was comfortable, and her phone had been left in the car.

    Nothing could touch her here. She was safe.