He hugs Ethan, hugs me again, and Ethan gathers up his things—a bag I hadn't seen sitting at the bottom of the stairs and some keys, then he goes over to the mantle and gingerly takes the urn, cradling it in his arms.
We say our goodbyes to Rick again, and I’m in some kind of time warp, some kind of disbelief, a fun house spinning feelingthing, because I can’t believe it’s going to just happen like this. I expected a fight. I expected to get chased off the property and get the cops called on me even, but this…this seems too familiar. Too much like old times and it’s frightening me even more.
“I can follow you in my truck.” I say it to Ethan almost defensively, as if he’s been trying to start an argument.
He opens one of the Blazer’s doors. “It’s bad for the environment.”
“You…you want me to ride with you, then?”
His cold eyes shift over to me. “Get your shit and get in if you’re coming. I’m not going to wait.” After shoving his bag into the back seat, I watch him carefully situate Ev’s urn in between some cushions and pillows and buckle it in like a person, making more adjustments until he’s sure it’s secure.
It makes my throat ache.
Then he gets into the driver’s side and starts the engine.
I’m too stunned to move, to take any sort of action, like go get my shit from my truck, until I see he wasn’t kidding as he backs out of the driveway, absolutely no hesitation whatsoever, as he turns and begins to drive off.
I snap out of it. “Wait!” I run over to my truck and grab my bag and quickly lock it with my keys. “Wait! Ethan!”
I have to sprint down the street after him, until he gets to the stop sign at the corner, and I yank open the passenger side door.
Ethan doesn’t say anything as I climb inside and sit there, breathing hard.
He just looks left, looks right, and drives on.
Port Leyden is behind us in a flash.
Then Boonville. Then Alder Creek. Then Remsen.
I’m having a hard time making my brain work, making my thoughts and senses catch up to what just happened and what’shappening now. The urn, the photograph, then Ethan. I think it all might be too much. Especially seeing the way Ethan looks now, his voice, his eyes, and in the daylight, the way Ethan’s now honey-blond hair has chocolaty brown roots coming through.
And I’m in a fucking car with him, going to scatter Everett’s ashes. None of this can possibly be real.
Ethan cracks his window an inch or so, letting in a blast of frigid air. He pulls a pack of Parliaments and a lighter from his coat pocket and lights one, exhaling through his nose.
This is new. He didn’t smoke before. Questions start to pile up in my mind, bottlenecking on their way to my mouth, questions about smoking, about life in New York City, about the eyeliner, his hair color, and why hasn’t he punched me in the face yet?
Instead, I mutely sit there for a time in the passenger seat as we pass a Dunkin Donuts and signs for Utica, listening to the whoosh of air through Ethan’s window as he smokes.
Then I hear myself mumble, “I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in rental cars.”
Ethan smokes the thing all the way to the filter. Then he stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray already half-full of Parliament butts. He shuts the window.
“When did you start smoking?” I ask.
Ethan stares straight ahead at the road.
“You gonna tell me how college is at least?” I try to make my voice sound light and easy, talk to him the way I used to. But it feels fake.
Ethan glances over at me, his expression unamused, then stares out of the windshield again.
I’ve got a few pictures of Ethan from the side in that envelope. There never seemed to be a bad side or a bad angle to him. I could photograph him all day, doing the most mundane shit ever. The camera loved him, honestly. I think I told him that.
And I think I really meant me.
I remember the disposable camera in my coat pocket just then. I take it out. I look out of the window. Disposable camera film really isn’t made for taking action shots, so I turn around in the seat and aim it at the urn buckled in behind me.
“What are you doing?” Ethan asks.
