“You’re really a hypochondriac, right?” He does not believe I’m handling it, even for a second by the way he clicks his tongue on his teeth.
It’s my turn to blurt out a laugh. “How’d you guess?”
“I think the incident in the pharmacy gave it away. And there’s that post-it note warning me that you come in from 2:15to 2:30 every weekday afternoon. And Craig gave me a fifteen minute long speech about you.”
I gulp. “Well, I’m glad you know my schedule.” I dig around in my tote bag for the stack of letters I grabbed from the basement, looking for the one with a Waverly Inn takeout menu stapled to the front.
“You know, there’s medications that can help,” Dean says.
“Don’t you know my prescriptions? Don’t you fill them?” I retort. I don’t need to be upsold on medication.
“There’s others.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I’m a pharmacist clinician. I can recommend something to you. To help.”
“I’m fine. Talk to my doctor if you’re so concerned.” I take a deep breath and try to ignore the niggling feeling in my gut that makes me feel like I might throw up. The realization I’m going on a last minute road trip with a practical stranger in the dark is hitting me harder and faster than a shot of top-shelf tequila.
Even though it’s dark and I can barely see in the car, I know the feel of the cap by heart. I immediately find the chewable pepto bismol tablets and pop two like they’re candy. “Just drop me off when we get there. You can wait in the car.”
“If that’s what you want,” Dean says, taking the exit with ease.
“It’s what I want.”
The inn isn’t that far from the highway. We pull into a nearly empty gravel parking lot. It’s just past ten o’clock and the windshield is fogging up. I zip up my black puffer coat as far as it goes. I grit my teeth and clench my jaw. This is it. It's time to go. Time to bear it.
The Waverly Inn. The look of it is more like a shack than a highly rated inn and restaurant. There’s the main entrance to the bar and restaurant, and a strip of motel style rooms attached inthe back. I flip up the takeout menu and skim the letter clutched in my hands.
It’s the first stop on Andy’s tour. He played a set of Jeff Buckley and Leonard Cohen with his original songs. I’m frozen in place for a beat, while Dean stares at me from the front seat. Fuck. This was a bad idea. I’ve faced Andy’s mortality about a hundred times, but in the comfort of my own bedroom and not in the scrappiness of a motel
“Are you going?”
“I’m getting there.” I start rooting around in my bag for something, anything to help mefeel better. I already took a pepto—what about an ibuprofen? Dean gets out of the car and rounds the hood. He opens the door for me.
“Let’s go.” He hauls me up by the arm and out. I’m just another limp body. I’m playing my part, and this may as well be the morgue. “I didn’t drive you all the way here for you to chicken out. I need a drink.”
“I think I’m going to throw up,” I announce to him. “We should go home.”
“You’re not going to throw up. You ate a pepto before we left the car. We’re not going home.”
“You don’teata pepto,” I say, as if I had not just…well, eaten a pepto.
“Whatever. You chewed on one.” He drops my arm and takes a step back.
Dean and I walk the dark, stony path towards the entrance. There’s a small vestibule before the main entrance, littered with a thousand cigarettes and a hundred posters plastered across the wall. I scan for Andy’s poster, but I don’t see it.
I’m tempted to start tearing down posters, just to find it, but Dean opens the rusty door to the bar and I’m jolted, frozen, a deer in the headlights.
“It’s darker in there than outside. I think I’ll stay out here.”
“Madeline, please go in,” His voice is raspy, he’s had enough.
As soon as I take a step in, a wall of sound reverberates off the walls and into my head—it’s the band. Even though the parking lot was quite empty, it’s bustling inside. Locals, guests, tourists. It’s a happening place. There’s framed photos and posters adorning the paint-peeling walls. Chandeliers with real candles hang low over the bar.
I’m looking for a place along the wall to settle in, but Dean spots a high top table and steers me towards it. I have to jump to hop into the seat, and my feet dangle. The jump sends my heart racing.
I try to control it with a deep breath, but the noise. The people. The thick, steamy atmosphere is too much for my body to take. People are moving in every direction, every space of every plane, and I can’t take it. My head starts spinning almost immediately.
