Eden
“This Burden We Carry”
I’dgrownusedtothe sound of Halo pacing. I knew his rhythms by now: the shift of his weight as he checked the blinds, the muted creak of the floor near the table, the way he tapped the same spot on the edge of the counter when he was thinking. But this morning, he just stood still. I looked up from where I was pretending to read on the bed. He was dressed, jacket zipped halfway, boots laced, keys in hand. His bag was by the door again, but his face wasn’t wearing the usual mask.
“You need to get out,” he said simply.
I blinked. “Like… out out?”
“Yeah, out out.”
I stood slowly. “Okay. What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he said, already heading for the door. “Unless you count someone possibly giving me a location… I just need to talk to a guy; you can sit in the car and wait. Then we’ll go to the store. If we’re going to be stuck here much longer, we’ll need some things.”
“So this is like… recon or something?”
“Get your shoes on, or I’m leaving you,” he said in a sing-song voice.
I scrambled to my feet, putting on my shoes and following him out the door with a bounce in my step. He opened the car door for me, but it seemed like it was less about politeness and more that he didn’t want my back turned to the world for even a moment. When he shut the door, I saw him give the parking lot one good look. I thought I should tell him about the man at the vending machine… but I just couldn’t.
We were halfway down a rural stretch of nowhere, with nothing but cracked pavement and dry fields on either side. He turned on the radio, and it gave way to a faint tune. Fleetwood Mac, I think.
I leaned back in the passenger seat, one foot tucked up underneath me. “Okay, so, important question.”
He gave me a glance, almost nervous. “What?”
“What’s your ‘windows down, driving at sunset’ song?”
He snorted softly. “Is that a real thing?”
“Obviously.” I shot him a sideways look. “Everyone has one. It's the song that makes you feel like you're starring in your own movie.”
He was quiet for a second. Then: “Maybe... ‘Simple Man.’”
“Oh myGod, of course it’s ‘Simple Man,’” I laughed.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s every guy’s go-to when they want to seem deep.”
He shook his head, amused. “Okay, then. What’s yours?”
“‘Edge of Seventeen.’ Stevie Nicks forever.” I didn’t hesitate, palms up like I was offering sage knowledge.
He smirked. “Youwouldpick something about white-winged doves and poetic heartbreak.”
“Don’t mock the queen.”
“I’m not mocking,” he said, though his smile lingered. “I just didn’t peg you as a ‘drive barefoot and scream-cry to Stevie’ type.”
“You really haven’t been paying attention, have you?”
The moment stretched. His eyes flicked to me again, something soft passing between us. Moments later, he turned the music down.
“We’re here.”
We pulled into a dirt lot behind a sagging bar that looked condemned. I hadn’t really been paying attention, and now I wasn’t even sure where we were. There wasn’t much out here, wherever it was.
