This Much is True Page 2

  Hope Eternal…

  Like a spark from a match, the smallest flicker of light smolders in my chest. The tiniest hint of faith standing up to the fog of despair trying to wrap me in its suffocating darkness.

  This is not where our story ends. I’m not going down without a fight. I will turn this sinking ship around. I will get back what we’ve lost.

  I just need to take a little nap so I can think about it more clearly. I’ll find a solution…

  Jr

  The sun is just warming the edge of the horizon when I reach the ancient beach house on an unfashionable stretch of the coastal highway.

  The place barely has a driveway, and I double-check the address. I don’t really need to—the car I bought is waiting for me, unmistakable. Thanks to contact-less delivery, the keys should be waiting in a combination box under the fender. I should be able to get in and take off right away.

  Walking here was a strange experience. I only passed one person hitchhiking, and hardly any cars on the freeway. But I don’t have time to worry about it. I’ve got a lot to do and a short amount of time to do it.

  Feeling around, I find the keys. I’m not happy the driver’s side door is unlocked, but when I turn the ignition, the engine roars to life, sounding as good as Car Heaven promised.

  I’m kind of amazed at how trusting these online car services are. I didn’t even have to make a downpayment. Still, I suppose they can track me down and reclaim it if I don’t… and send me back to prison.

  In my bag are the few personal belongings I had on me when I entered San Quentin—an old iPhone, my wallet with a few credit cards, and my driver’s license.

  A plain white envelope containing two hundred dollars in cash is new. Apparently, that’s the amount you get when you’re released from jail, like it’s fucking Monopoly or something.

  My jaw flexes, and I briefly feel the fiery anger of how much I’ve lost and where I am now. I used to have it all.

  I was the biggest guy in town, the homegrown hero. It still stings, and I double-down on my mission. I’ve got seven days to get it done.

  Three hours down the road, my phone is charged enough to make a call. I’m only a little surprised it still works—I handled all the bills, and we had a family plan. I’m sure they didn’t even think to take me off it.

  Family, I exhale a bitter laugh. I’ve learned a lot about family through this experience, specifically who I can trust.

  “Scout here.” My younger brother’s voice is scruffy like he’s just waking up.

  I imagine he’s been sawing logs as usual, and my tension eases a notch. “You sleeping?”

  He clears his throat, and I hear a rustle in the background. “JR? Is that you? What the hell?”

  “It’s eight o’clock in the morning. Don’t you work anymore?”

  “No!” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m about to lose my apartment. What’s new with you?”

  “They let me out early.”

  “No shit!”

  “Yeah. One of the inmates had a good lawyer, said it was a civil rights thing.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope. I’m out.”

  “Not sure how I feel about that.” He laughs, and it sounds like he’s walking. “Who else is running around loose?”

  “You won’t catch me judging.” It’s safe to say I have a whole new perspective on the penal system.

  My hand tightens on the steering wheel, and I squint away from the rising sun.

  “So… are you okay?” Hesitation is in his voice. I’m sure he’s thinking of all the exaggerated bullshit he’s seen in movies.

  “I’m okay. But I need your help.”

  “Oh, sure. Need a place to crash? Everything’s closed, so finding work is tough, but I could see—”

  “Can you get away for a week? I’m making a road trip, and I need you to help me drive.”

  “A week?” It sounds like he’s rubbing his face. “I don’t know. I mean, the studios are closed, but they could reopen at any time—”

  “I’m an hour outside the city. Text me your address, and I’ll pick you up. I’ll have you back in seven days.”

  “You sound awful sure about that.”

  “I’m sure.” My jaw tightens.

  I’m not totally free, which only fuels my anger. I’m furious I have a record. Otherwise, I could do this myself, instead of dragging him into it.

  Still, Scout will be okay. If anything goes wrong, this will be on me.

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. You in?”

  He hesitates, but a grin enters his tone. “Sounds like the Dunne brothers gettin’ it done.”

  “Something like that.”

  He’s referencing a time in my life I barely recognize now, a time when he and I were the golden boys, football heroes, and people rolled out the red carpet for us.

  It was a time when I thought my life would be so different.

  “Can you at least tell me where we’re headed?”

  “Home.” The line falls quiet, but I’m not waiting for a response. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  Disconnecting, I toss the phone on the passenger’s seat and push the pedal closer to the floor.

  This is a hell of a car. I’ve been hitting almost 90 the whole way, keeping an eye out for cops, but the interstates are deserted.

  It’s weird, like an apocalypse or something. It’s perfect for what I need.

  Reaching out, I switch on the radio. It’s got that satellite service, and somebody left it on a 1970s station. I’m not picky, so I let it go. My mind is a million miles away—or 2,500 miles away to be exact.

  Last night, I plotted our route from LA to Charleston. It’s a straight line across seven states, from the east coast to the west coast.

  Under normal conditions it would be a 36-hour drive. Of course, we’ll have to stop, but we should beat that time with no traffic, no construction, no state troopers.

  I look out at the sunrise tipping the desert scenery in gold. The windows are down, and the warm, dry air swirls around me. I’m so fucking glad to be out of San Francisco and the cold, damp fog.

  Passing a hand over the beard on my cheeks, I think of the other thing driving me across the continent. My little boy Jesse had just turned three when I left that morning. He was on my back holding a football in the air, and we were laughing, pretending like he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

  I still see his cotton top, his blue eyes, and Iron Man pajamas. He was just big enough to understand the concept of I’ll be right back.

  Only, I didn’t come right back.

  I wanted to see him, but the prosecutor called me a flight risk. They set my bail so high, I couldn’t go anywhere. I have no idea what my ex-wife Becky told him happened to me. She never even sent me pictures. He’ll be five now, starting kindergarten.

  My throat aches, and I clear away the thickness.

  What Becky did send was a fucking “Dear John” letter three months into my sentence. She wrote how her whole world had changed, how she didn’t sign up to be the wife of a felon.

  She didn’t even question my conviction.

  She had the divorce papers served up ready to go in my cell with all our shit neatly divided, like she’d gotten started on it the minute the judge banged the gavel.

  My fists flex as betrayal tightens my stomach. I push harder on the gas, when a soft voice behind my shoulder startles the shit out of me.

  “Where am I?” A pale ghost of a girl with messy, light-blonde hair rises in the backseat, and I jerk the wheel so hard, the car swerves like we might flip.

  She goes flying across the backseat, and I pull the wheel straight, getting us back in the right lane.

  “What the fuck?” I shout, but she dives to the open window and hangs out the side.

  Her body shudders, and I’m pretty sure she’s throwing up.

  That does it. I hit the brakes and d
rive the car onto the shoulder. Whatever’s happening right now is about to end real quick.

  I’ve had enough bullshit to last me a lifetime.

  Hope

  The air has changed.

  It whips throughout the car, hot and stinging, and I’m lying on the backseat, rocking side to side like I’m on a speed boat in open water. Blinking against the bright sunlight, I try to get my bearings, but it’s like struggling through a fog.

  One thing is certain: I am not in San Francisco.

  I’m in pain.

  My head throbs, and I’m still wearing my thin, flowered sundress from yesterday with my plush, beige coat on top. My feet are bare. Sand is stuck to my toes, and my mouth is so dry…

  I must’ve fallen asleep in Metallicar. Now I’m racing down the highway with The Eagles playing in the background, “Doolin Dalton,” and a strange man is driving.

  Blinking hard, I try to focus on him. Who is this guy?

  His profile is chiseled. He has a perfectly straight nose and square jaw covered in a short, dark-brown beard. His hair is dark, but shiny with caramel highlights. It’s shaggy like he hasn’t had a haircut in a while—but who has these days?

  He seems angry. His dark brow is lowered, and the muscle in the side of his jaw moves back and forth like he’s deep in thought. His heavy, light blue shirt reminds me of a uniform with the long sleeves rolled to his elbows. He grips the top of the steering wheel with one hand, flexing a powerful forearm. Dark ink swirls in a design on his skin, but I can’t make out his tattoo.

  He’s so intensely focused and ridiculously hot. Even in my hungover state, I feel a tingle low in my belly at the sight of him. He’s all man, commanding and powerful, and I’m not sure I can look him straight in the eye.

  I need to snap out of it. I shouldn’t be here—wherever I am… Where am I?

  Yars is waiting for me at her apartment in Half Moon Bay, but it feels like we’re headed south.

  Reaching out, I’m wobbly as I clutch the seat in front of me, easing myself to a sitting position. “Where am I?”

  Light blue eyes hit mine in the rearview mirror, and it’s a jolt of electricity. The car jerks wildly to the right, and I go flying, slamming against the door with an oof.

  “What the fuck?” He jerks the wheel to the left to get us back on track, and I bolt to the open window.

  The entire bottle of wine I consumed last night is making a reappearance.

  I hang out the door, as my stomach turns itself inside out, and my shoulders heave. Tears sting my eyes, and I’m so embarrassed.

  I whimper, gripping the metal side of the door as the car quickly slows to a stop. I’m sure my face is a wreck, and I pull the sleeve of my coat over my hand, trying to dab at my eyes.

  The driver’s door slams, and I hear the sharp crunch of boots on gravel just before the passenger’s side door jerks open. I almost fall.

  “Get out.” It’s a sharp order, just short of a growl.

  He’s waiting, and I’m doing my best to breathe normally.

  “I’m sorry… I—”

  A grip like a vise clamps around my upper arm, and he drags me out of the vehicle, dropping me in the dirt on the side of the road.

  “What are you doing in this car?” He isn’t shouting, but anger crackles in his tone.

  I say the first thing in my mind. “This is my car—”

  “No, this is my car. I bought it.”

  “Oh, God.” I rock back on my ass facing Metallicar.

  He’s right, and I’m afraid I’m going to be sick again. I really don’t want to puke in front of this wildly gorgeous, hostile man.

  It’s strangely quiet on the side of the freeway. Instead of cars racing past, the hum of birds and crickets fills the air between us as we breathe fast, facing each other.

  Finally, he speaks, his wolf eyes narrowed. “Do you have the virus?”

  “No…” I wince. Speaking hurts. “I-I had a bottle of wine.”

  His hands drop from his hips, and he exhales sharply, stomping back to the car. “You got a phone?”

  Feeling around, I find my phone in my pocket. He nods when he sees me lifting it out. “Call someone to come get you.”

  He slides into the driver’s side and the engine roars to life as he slams the door.

  Panic seizes my chest, and I jump to my feet, ignoring the flash of pain in my skull. “Wait! Please wait! I can’t call anybody!”

  My phone is dead, and anyway, there’s no one to call.

  I grab the open passenger’s window, jogging a few steps before he slams on the brakes and glares at me.

  “Let go of the car.” Dust rises around us, and tears sting my eyes.

  “You can’t leave me here.” My heart beats so fast, and I struggle to breathe normally. “I’m not wearing shoes…”

  “Not my problem.”

  He starts to go again, and I scream. “Wait! Please!”

  Again, the tires grind to a stop, and blue fire smolders in his eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m sorry… I’m really sorry, but… you have to find it in your heart…” I’m trembling. My voice wavers. “You can’t leave me on the side of the road like this.”

  Full lips press together, and he looks straight down the road in the direction we were headed.

  Seconds like hours tick past. I’m sure he’s going to floor it, but instead his shoulders drop. His fist clenches on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t look at me. “I’ll take you as far as LA. You can get a ride or whatever there.”

  My eyes slide shut, and I hold onto the side of Dad’s black car idling on the shoulder. Then reality hits me. A man I don’t even know is driving me to LA. What then? I have no money, no phone… No shoes.

  “I’m not waiting forever,” he snaps. “Get in or stay here. Final call.”

  I hesitate a bit too long, and the car starts to move.

  “Okay!” I scream, and the car jerks to a stop.

  Grabbing the door handle, I rush into the passenger’s side. As soon as the door slams, he floors it, sending my back against the leather and dirt and rocks flying into the space behind us.

  It’s quiet inside except for the wind pushing around us. My hands are clutched in my lap, and Los Angeles rises up ahead. The Eagles continue to sing softly on the radio, and I press my lips together in the dry air swirling around us.

  “Are you an actor?” My voice is like sandpaper.

  The tiny muscles around his eyes flinch. “No.”

  “But you live in LA?”

  He cuts his eyes at me briefly. “No.”

  We continue powering down the freeway. He’s letting Metallicar eat up the miles, and I feel the power—this car was built for speed. My eyes sting, and my head aches like someone hit it with a sledgehammer. I’d give my little toe for a bottle of water.

  “Got anything to drink in here?”

  He exhales in an irritated manner. “No.”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  Those ice-blue eyes flash at me, and my stomach flips. “No.”

  I settle back against the seat, holding the sides of my skirt as I prop my bare feet on the dash.

  He reaches over and shoves them down. “Feet on the floor.”

  My jaw drops, and I catch myself, shifting upright as he rubs his palm over the spot where my feet had been. “Excuse me!”

  “You’re excused.”

  His hand returns to the steering wheel, and I cross my arms over my chest, studying his profile. He could be a movie star with that profile. His teeth are straight and white, and I can tell from the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders and down to his waist he works out. He’s rough around the edges, but he doesn’t look much older than thirty.

  “If you’re not an actor, what do you do?”

  “None of your business.”

  Shaking my head, I turn to the window, huffing a whatever. I’ve never met someone so rude in my life.

  Looking out, I notice the
trees sprouting up along the highway are so green, and the high-rise buildings are distinctly clear. It’s strange because usually the city is shrouded in a hazy brown mist. It’s a beautiful morning.

  I look down at my lap, and the shock of waking up here starts to fade. My sadness from last night trickles back. I figure I’ll try again.

  “This was my dad’s car, you know.” I say to the open space. “He got it when he was about my age and kept it up all these years.”

  Mr. Growly doesn’t answer. Only Don Henley croons back at me about one of these nights.

  “I hope you’ll love it as much as he did.”

  The guy glances at me a bit longer this time. “It’s a good car.”

  “It’s a classic.” I slide my hand along the passenger door.

  We’re slowing down, and he hands me his phone. “Can you read these directions to me?”

  “Sure…” I’m encouraged by the hint of friendliness. I look around as we exit the freeway. I don’t know much about LA or where we are. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m picking up my brother.”

  Looking at the directions on the phone, I realize I have no idea where I’ll go from here.

  Wrinkling my nose, I look up at him. “I don’t know your name.”

  Another flash of ice blue. “You don’t need to.”

  “Still, it would be helpful—”

  “John.” His reply is a little too sharp.

  “Is it really?” Another glare, and I hold up a hand. “Okay, John. I’m Hope. Nice to meet you.”

  “Don’t let me miss my turn.”

  Nice to meet you too, Hope. I answer for him in my head. So much for friendliness. “It says five hundred feet.”

  He follows my directions until we’re pulling up in front of what looks like an old motel out of the 1960s. It has a pink flamingo painted on the pale blue stucco column in the center, and two long rows of apartments form a two-story, U-shaped structure.

  John steps out, slamming the door before walking around and opening mine. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”