She raps on the window. “Hey. Professor. You okay?”
“Peachy keen,” he replies, lips barely moving. “A moment, if you please.”
Ripley opens his door and leans down. “You should’ve told me you get carsick. I keep anti-nausea meds on me.”
During her dad’s chemo, he joked about his “motion sickness.” Ripley joked back, because it was that or start crying. Her dad laughed like every second with his daughter was a gift even when he was leaning out the passenger door of the Charger and spitting into the gutter, his big frame shrunken by cancer and the things the doctors did to kill it.
Smithson’s eyes fly open. Ripley startles back, her thick, streaky blond braid tumbling forward. Her hair is her best feature, long and heavy and what Cara calls “shampoo-ad-envy bait.” She doesn’t bother with it much in summer or, mostly, ever. There’s no time, no need, and frankly no money to do more than stand in front of her bathroom mirror and hack off a few inches every now and again.
She tosses the braid behind her shoulder. Smithson’s hungry, hollow-cheeked look is back.
There was a moment in the wide hallway of that Atlanta conference center when she saw this same look on his face. It felt like a live spark had floated through the air, shocking them with electric recognition.
Or maybe it was only her who’d inexplicably thought,I know you,before he ruined it withI know who you are.
She needs to remember that this man is in Montana for his own reasons, not all of which he’s willing to share. She’d be wise to look out for herself and her crew instead of looking into his kaleidoscope eyes.
She rummages for a blister pack of Dramamine in her bag and holds it out. “You need some?”
“Thanks, I’m good.” He unfolds himself from the passenger seat and steps into this western town like an apparition from another world. This is Hercules, where cowboy boots are office wear, and Smithson’s wearing so much old money he might as well be dressed in pound notes. And it’s a busy Saturday, which means a lot of people’s heads turn to take him in. She’s trying to hide, damn it, and he sticks out like a six-foot-two stalk of corn in a wheat field.
Smithson hesitates in front of the unassuming storefront Ripley leads him to. “I’m sure I’d be more comfortable in the clothing I already own.”
“You’ll be comfortable for five minutes on a sunny day and one minute in the rain. And you’re going to burn right through that cotton,” she says, plucking at the sleeve of his shirt. It’s buttery under her fingers. Luxurious. Expensive.
He stares at the spot where she pulled the sleeve against his skin. “It’sBelgian linen,” he replies haughtily.
“It’s practically transparent,” Ripley retorts. “Not that I noticed. Come on.”
The store is crammed with circular racks. Optic orange hunting gear is smashed up against neutral mountaineering basics; shirts mixed with pants mixed with base layers.
“How does one…find items to purchase?” Smithson asks faintly, venturing a few steps inside.
“You’re the guy who sorts a hundred thousand data points for fun. Are you saying you can’t work your way through a measly five hundred pairs of pants?” At his horrified expression, she takes pity on him. “It’s okay. I don’t love clothes shopping either.”
She hasn’t since Christmas of second grade, when the trailer door banged open in the December dark.
“Surprise!” her mom called, holding up FAO Schwarz bagsand cocking one hip like in the outlet mall commercial she’d booked the year before.
“Mama!” Ripley shrieked.
“You’re supposed to call first, Vivienne,” her dad said mildly, parting Ripley’s long, thick waves for her bedtime braid. The smell of motor oil wafted from his scrubbed hands.
“Wait.” Her mom crossed the double-wide in a few graceful steps. “Ripley! Who said you could get so pretty while I was away? And all this gorgeous hair!” Her eyes traversed Ripley’s face with a new, fevered sharpness.
The next day, the brightly wrapped gifts disappeared, replaced by three tickets toThe Nutcracker.Seeing them, her father said only, “I can’t drop work and drive to the city on two days’ notice, Vivienne.” At the time, Ripley couldn’t decipher his even tone. Later, she would love him for it. In every way he could, for as long as he could, he made it possible for Ripley to love her mother.
Vivienne’s smile was beautiful and hard, like a candy apple that’s about to break your tooth. “It’ll be a mother-daughter trip, then. So fun!” She drove Ripley to the Costco off the interstate, the one her dad hated because it siphoned all the easy, profitable car maintenance away from his garage in town. Ripley got a gold velvet dress and golden shoes so thick with glued-on glitter that pieces turned up around the trailer for months.
The day of the matinee, Vivienne put their identically made-up faces side by side in the mirror. “Don’t you feel beautiful, sweetheart?” She bought Ripley a ginger ale at intermission even though it cost two dollars. “Wouldn’t you like to be one of the kids onstage? Those girls started ballet when they were three, but we can catch up. You’re only six.”
“I’m seven and a half.”
Her mom’s eyes turned chilly. “We’ll tell the teacher you’re six.”
Suddenly, Ripley’s stomach didn’t want any more ginger ale.
She heard the argument start after her bedtime, quietly at first.
