Page 103 of The Serpent King

She clutched the CD to her heart. They gazed at each other for a second, wiping away tears. And because there was nothing left to say and everything left to say, they kissed one more time.

“Call me when you get there, okay? So I know you got there safe?” Dill asked, his words catching in his throat.

She nodded.

She got in her car. He returned her plaintive wave, stood in the street, and watched her taillights fade and disappear.

He walked up his steps, sat on his disintegrating stoop, and bowed his head as if in prayer. Through the blur of tears, he caught a glimpse of the church sign. WHEN JESUS COMES INTO A LIFE, HE CHANGES EVERYTHING.

After a while he opened the door, and started to go inside. But he couldn’t. Only the expanse of the indifferent, infinite starry sky could contain his ferocious, surging hurt.

She thought she’d done pretty well for herself the night before, not-completely-losing-her-shit-wise. All things considered, she was doing okay—riding a wave of excitement—as she pulled into the truck stop outside of Roanoke, Virginia. While she gassed up, she made dinner plans with Dahlia and Chloe (something low-key and out of the way, since Chloe tried to avoid attention; something that would accommodate Dahlia’s gluten-free diet; something ethnic because Lydia was from Forrestville). She was documenting the trip for her Twitter and Instagram followers, so she took a few pictures while she waited.

She felt sleepy and went inside to get some strong trucker coffee. The truck stop was a wonderland of Southern kitsch. T-shirts emblazoned with stern eagles in Confederate uniforms and “American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God.” Aprons that said “Pitmaster” above a crude cartoon of an anthropomorphic pig, barbecuing (presumably) another pig. Tank tops with images of the Southern states as cast-iron skillets. She grabbed a Tennessee one. She took picture after picture.

Then, the ultimate prize: a porcelain cherub holding a Confederate flag with “Heritage Not, Hate” painted beneath. She laughed, took a picture, texted it to Dill, and then tweeted it to her 187,564 followers with the caption Racists: not so good, with the, commas.

She had a sudden memory. On their last school shopping trip to Nashville, Dill had pointed out a billboard that said VISIT DELLA TAZZA VINEYARD, THE FINEST WINERY IN MIDDLE TENNESSEE. He had a knack for pointing out things she’d find hilarious.

“Dahling, fetch my finest NASCAR jacket and airbrushed Confederate flag T-shirt. I’ve a hankering for a glass of fine Tennessee wine,” she’d said.

And then it hit her. Like, well, a truck. The realization that the one person she most wanted to show the rebel flag cherub to, and laugh about it with, wasn’t there. And wouldn’t be there for most of the other things she’d ever see and do in her life. And with it, the realization that she already missed a life she was never supposed to miss and missed Dill a thousand times more deeply than she ever imagined.

She crumbled. Right in the middle of the aisle, the heritage-but-not-hate-loving cherubs observing her impassively with their lifeless, alabaster eyes. A good, ugly, makeup-smearing cry, with tears and snot running down her face. And this is why I thought it would be a bad idea to try to listen to your CD while I drove. If you could see me now, Dill. If you could see me now.

She managed to pull herself together after a minute or two and took her coffee and tank top to the front. The cashier was a careworn woman in her sixties.

“Now honey,” she said. “Everything all right?”

Lydia nodded, but on came the faucet again. She shook her head. “I wish I’d told someone before I left that I love him too. That’s all.”

“Well, honey, even if you didn’t tell him, did you show him?”

“I hope so,” Lydia said, her voice shuddering and breaking.

“Then I think he knows. We ladies ain’t so great at keeping things like that hid.” The cashier gave an empathetic half-smile and reached under the counter. She came up with a teddy bear as careworn as her.

“This is a truck stop, honey, so we’re no stranger to people missing people and people having regrets over stuff they wish they’d said before leaving. You need a hug with Chester here?”

Lydia reached out and accepted Chester the bear. She hugged him. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap trucker cologne. And why shouldn’t I begin my glamorous new life as a big city girl by crying in a truck stop, surrounded by racist cherubs, while hugging a stinky teddy bear. Chester wasn’t who she wished she were hugging, but he would have to do.

Dill stood as the guards led his father in. He caught Dill’s eye with his ardent stare, but Dill met it and didn’t look away. His father pulled out a chair roughly and started to sit, but he saw that Dill didn’t intend to sit, so he stood. They looked at each other for what felt to Dill like a long time.

“So,” his father said. “You must know that I know.” His voice had a viperous calm.

“I do.”

“Explain yourself.”

Dill commanded his voice not to waver, and it didn’t. “I’m going to college. I’m going to have a better life than this. That’s all there is to explain.”

“You are abandoning your mother.” His father spat the word like it was profane.

“You’re one to talk.”

His father’s poisonous calm began to vanish. “No. I did not abandon you and your mother. I was taken from you. You are abandoning us by choice, the way your grandfather abandoned me.”

“No, I’m not. I almost abandoned you that way. But I didn’t.” Dill could tell from the look that passed over his father’s face that he had broken through, just for a second.