Sound okay?”
I nod. Slip my pencil back into my notebook. Too agitated to write, too agitated to do much of anything other than gaze out the window, anticipating the moment when the landscape will be completely blotted out by the absence of sun.
Chay pulls into the station and stops at the first vacant pump, and the moment I exit the truck, I’m amazed at how good it feels to finally stand and walk around for a bit after so many hours of being pent up.
I throw my head back, stretch my mouth into a yawn, and take a long deep drag of New Mexico air. Surprised to find it even drier here than it was in Los Angeles, Phoenix too—must be the altitude. Stretching from side to side before bending down toward the earth—my fingertips brush across pebbly grains of asphalt, forcing myself well past the pain of my cramped and sore muscles now screaming in protest.
“Why don’t you go inside and grab us some Cokes.” Chay reaches for his wallet, but I’m quick to wave it away, already crossing the lot to the Circle K to check out the offerings.
The moment I push through the door, my stomach emits a loud, embarrassing rumble. And when I take in the array of prepackaged, processed foods on display, I can’t help but regret having left my uneaten cheeseburger and fries back in Phoenix.
I drift along the aisles, piling my arms high with supersized bags full of candy, doughnuts, and chips, along with two quart-sized bottles of Coke—one for me, one for Chay. And after adding a roll of mints to the stack, I dump it all on the counter, exchange a pleasant, if not generic greeting with the cashier, and busy myself with tabloid gazing while she busies herself with ringing me up.
Jennika hates when I do this—always quick to remind me that the majority of stories they print are either completely fabricated or carefully orchestrated by the subjects themselves. Still, it’s a guilty pleasure I cannot resist. The fun lies in determining which is crap and which isn’t.
Besides, it’s the only way I have to keep up with old friends. Some people have yearbooks and Facebook—I have the gossip rags.
As always, I start with the cheapest, most outrageous one of all. The one that boasts an enduring fascination of alleged space alien abductions and sightings of Elvis’s ghost. Smiling for the first time in hours when I see this week’s cover does not disappoint—claiming that a very famous, Oscar-winning actress is being haunted by the specter of a long-dead director hell-bent on revenge for the abysmal remake she’s producing.
Passing over the one that accuses every peasant top–wearing starlet of hiding a baby bump, I reach for the most respectable rag in the bunch—the one whose glossy covers are not-so-secretly coveted by most if not all of the up-and-coming stars.
This week’s cover boasting a seemingly candid photo of—
“That’ll be twenty-one sixteen,” the cashier says, but her voice is just noise in my head.
I barely tune in. Barely make out the words. The counter, my pile of junk food, the clerk—it all just fades into the background, until there’s nothing left but the cover of this magazine and myself.
It requires both hands to steady it—that’s how shaky they’ve become. My cheeks heating, my breath trapped in my chest—unable to lift my gaze from those piercing blue eyes, golden skin, tousled mop of blond hair, lazy half-smile, and the bandaged arm he raises in greeting.
And it is a greeting. Of that I’ve no doubt.
Despite his trying to act as though it’s a gesture of protest—as though it’s some failed attempt to fend off the camera’s intrusive telephoto lens—I know better.
Vane’s never met a photo vulture he didn’t secretly adore.
He’s new at the game—still craves the attention. His entire life spent vying for this kind of coverage, and now, thanks to me, he’s clinched it.
“Hello? Anyone home? Your total is twenty-one sixteen,” the cashier barks, adding, “with the
I nod. Slip my pencil back into my notebook. Too agitated to write, too agitated to do much of anything other than gaze out the window, anticipating the moment when the landscape will be completely blotted out by the absence of sun.
Chay pulls into the station and stops at the first vacant pump, and the moment I exit the truck, I’m amazed at how good it feels to finally stand and walk around for a bit after so many hours of being pent up.
I throw my head back, stretch my mouth into a yawn, and take a long deep drag of New Mexico air. Surprised to find it even drier here than it was in Los Angeles, Phoenix too—must be the altitude. Stretching from side to side before bending down toward the earth—my fingertips brush across pebbly grains of asphalt, forcing myself well past the pain of my cramped and sore muscles now screaming in protest.
“Why don’t you go inside and grab us some Cokes.” Chay reaches for his wallet, but I’m quick to wave it away, already crossing the lot to the Circle K to check out the offerings.
The moment I push through the door, my stomach emits a loud, embarrassing rumble. And when I take in the array of prepackaged, processed foods on display, I can’t help but regret having left my uneaten cheeseburger and fries back in Phoenix.
I drift along the aisles, piling my arms high with supersized bags full of candy, doughnuts, and chips, along with two quart-sized bottles of Coke—one for me, one for Chay. And after adding a roll of mints to the stack, I dump it all on the counter, exchange a pleasant, if not generic greeting with the cashier, and busy myself with tabloid gazing while she busies herself with ringing me up.
Jennika hates when I do this—always quick to remind me that the majority of stories they print are either completely fabricated or carefully orchestrated by the subjects themselves. Still, it’s a guilty pleasure I cannot resist. The fun lies in determining which is crap and which isn’t.
Besides, it’s the only way I have to keep up with old friends. Some people have yearbooks and Facebook—I have the gossip rags.
As always, I start with the cheapest, most outrageous one of all. The one that boasts an enduring fascination of alleged space alien abductions and sightings of Elvis’s ghost. Smiling for the first time in hours when I see this week’s cover does not disappoint—claiming that a very famous, Oscar-winning actress is being haunted by the specter of a long-dead director hell-bent on revenge for the abysmal remake she’s producing.
Passing over the one that accuses every peasant top–wearing starlet of hiding a baby bump, I reach for the most respectable rag in the bunch—the one whose glossy covers are not-so-secretly coveted by most if not all of the up-and-coming stars.
This week’s cover boasting a seemingly candid photo of—
“That’ll be twenty-one sixteen,” the cashier says, but her voice is just noise in my head.
I barely tune in. Barely make out the words. The counter, my pile of junk food, the clerk—it all just fades into the background, until there’s nothing left but the cover of this magazine and myself.
It requires both hands to steady it—that’s how shaky they’ve become. My cheeks heating, my breath trapped in my chest—unable to lift my gaze from those piercing blue eyes, golden skin, tousled mop of blond hair, lazy half-smile, and the bandaged arm he raises in greeting.
And it is a greeting. Of that I’ve no doubt.
Despite his trying to act as though it’s a gesture of protest—as though it’s some failed attempt to fend off the camera’s intrusive telephoto lens—I know better.
Vane’s never met a photo vulture he didn’t secretly adore.
He’s new at the game—still craves the attention. His entire life spent vying for this kind of coverage, and now, thanks to me, he’s clinched it.
“Hello? Anyone home? Your total is twenty-one sixteen,” the cashier barks, adding, “with the
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