Free Desert Places: A Novel of Terror by Blake Crouch Page B

southerners know the value of an easy day’s work. Don’t fault us for that. I think it’s just a little Yankee jealousy—”
    “I find the word Yankee to be an offensive term.”
    “That’s ’cause you’ve got a muddled definition in your head.”
    “Clarify, please.”
    “All right. Yankee : a noun defining anyone who lives north of Virginia, especially rude, anal northerners who talk too damn fast, don’t understand the concept of sweet tea and barbecue, and move to Florida in their golden years.” Cynthia laughed, her brown eyes glistening. I looked into them.
    They hemorrhaged, and I turned toward the window, my heart throbbing beneath my oxford shirt and saffron tie.
    “Andy?”
    “I’m fine,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
    “What is it?”
    “Nothing.” Staring out the window into Queens, I grasped for composure, telling myself the lie again.
    “You seem so different lately,” she said, bringing the wineglass to her lips.
    “How so?”
    “I don’t know. Since this is the first time we’ve been together in almost a year, it may be an unfair assessment on my part.”
    “Please,” I said, stabbing a scallop with my fork, “assess away.”
    “Since your vacation, I’ve noticed a change in you. Nothing drastic. But I think I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s wrong.”
    “What do you think is wrong, Cynthia?”
    “Difficult to put into words,” she said. “Just a gut feeling. When you called me after you returned this summer, something was different. I assumed you were just dreading the book tour. But I feel the same detached vibe coming from you even now.” I finished another glass of wine. “Talk to me, Andy,” she said. “You still burned-out?”
    “No. I know that really worries you.”
    “If it’s a woman, tell me and I’ll drop it. I don’t want to pry into your personal—”
    “It’s not a woman,” I said. “Look, I’m fine. There’s nothing you can do.”
    She lifted her wineglass and looked out the window.
    Our waiter came for our plates. He described a diabolical raspberry-chocolate soufflé, but it was late, and I had an 8:30 flight out of La Guardia in the morning. So Cynthia paid the bill, and we rode the elevator down to the street. Nearly midnight. I couldn’t imagine waking in the morning. I’d drunk far too much.
    I hailed a cab for Cynthia and kissed her on the cheek before she climbed in. She told me to call her the following week, and I promised I would. As her cab drove away, she stared through the back window, her earnest eyes penetrating me, gnawing at the root of my restlessness.
    You have no idea.
    When her cab was gone, I started down the sidewalk, and for several blocks, I didn’t pass a soul. Though hidden now from view, the filthy East River flowed into the Atlantic. I could smell the stale, polluted water. Four ambulances rushed by, their sirens shrieking between the buildings. With my hotel only ten blocks north, I hoped a stroll in the cool September night would sober me up.
    I dreaded going home. Since mid-June, I’d traveled the country, filling my days with appearances and readings that kept me grounded in the present. I never wanted a moment alone. My thoughts horrified me. Now, as I returned to North Carolina, to a slower way of life, I knew the torture would begin. I had no book to write. There was nothing for me to do but inhabit my lake house. To exist. And it was there, I feared, that the two weeks whose existence I’d denied all summer would come for me.
    When my mind drifted back to the desert, I’d force-feed myself the jade green sea, ivory sand, sweaty sunlight. Distinctly, I could picture the stuccoed beach house and veranda where I’d watch bloody sunsets fall into the sea. I was aware of the self-deception, but man will do anything to live with himself.

15
    I filled the beginning of October with crisp, clear days on Lake Norman and unbearable nights in my bed. I fished off my pier for an hour