Free All We Left Behind by Ingrid Sundberg Page B

slammed on the brake like I threw out a child. “What are you doing?”
    The car lurched to a stop and someone honked, swerving past.
    â€œI’m going to be sick,” I said.
    â€œAll right, okay.” He pulled over. “What did you eat?”
    My left flip-flop was torn, the strap snapped by the big toe.
    â€œDo you think it’s food poisoning, or do you have a temperature?”
    I saw his hand come toward me, but I was already yanking the door open and throwing off my seat belt. I rushed into the tall grass beside the road. My broken flip-flop tripped me and threw me to my knees.
    â€œMarion?” he called after me, and I pretended to throw up.
    My shoulders heaved and there was vomit in the grass and on my feet and in my hair—
    But nothing really came out.

Kurt
    My door hangs open and there are kernels of popcorn all over the seat. Exploded from the microwave bag when I slammed on the brake. Through the door I can see Marion. Standing in the woods. Back to me.
    She stares into the dark and I don’t know what to do. All I know is this is bad. Bad like Josie scratching her legs and crying on the other end of that phone line. Crying and too far away from me. I don’t want to get out of the car, but she’s out there for so long, I don’t think she’s ever going to get back in.
    â€œMarion?” I say, warning her so she knows I’m coming up behind her. “It’s pretty dark. We should get going.”
    She shakes like some piece of her is broke, and I know this is something I shouldn’t see. Something private. Like Mom. Like Josie. I walk into her periphery and her eyes make me hate myself for taking her here.
    â€œHey . . .” I inch closer and reach my hand out, eventhough the instinct is all kinds of unnatural. But this is what you do, right? You comfort people.
    â€œPlease don’t touch me,” she snaps, and I drop the hand so fast she shudders. “I’m fine,” she whispers, but there’s no way I believe that.
    She stares into the forest, like she wants to walk into it, and more than anything I want to take her hand and tell her this is going to be okay. Even if I don’t know how it’s going to be okay. Just that it is. So she knows she’s not alone.
    But I’m not that guy.
    *  *  *
    The parking lot is practically empty when I pull in and slow down. There are a few cars near the gym and I’m sure one of them is hers, but I don’t ask. She hasn’t said a word, and I haven’t said a word, and I’m not going to start now.
    The car isn’t stopped when she opens the passenger door again. I slam on the brake and she shoots forward, throwing a hand out against the dash.
    â€œHold on, geez,” I say. “I can take you to your—”
    â€œThis is fine.”
    She doesn’t leave, despite the fact that everything about her says she wants to. I swallow, with the door half-open as she strains her neck to look at me.
    â€œWhich car is your—?”
    â€œMy last name,” she says, cutting me off.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat’s my last name?” She says it quietly, barely above a whisper, and I notice her hair is up. At some point she pinned it away and all that’s left is this raw question in her eyes.
    And for some reason I want to answer it. But . . .
    â€œAre you the Honda?” I say, nodding to the closest car.
    â€œSure. Why not,” she says, which means it’s not, and now I really don’t know what to do. I could drive her to the Honda, even though it’s not her car. Or I could sit here and let her get out, which somehow seems worse.
    â€œMedford,” she says, forcing me to look at her. I expect her to smack me, but there’s this weird resign in her eyes instead. She’s not angry, which I hate, because I could deal with this if she were angry. Only she’s not. She’s whatever this