Meet Me Here - Bryan Bliss Page 0,3

the second.

Will’s only a few feet away from us when she says, “Go. Please. I can’t do this.”

Her voice is tiny, frantic, and she’s not looking at me when I nod. When I cut the wheel to the right and climb the small embankment, steering into the dark field. Mallory grabs the Oh Shit! handle above her window as we hit a rut, the entire cab jumping, and roar into the tall grass.

A few seconds later headlights pour into the darkness behind us.

“Jesus, they’re really going to follow us. Out here. In that car?” I turn to Mallory. “Your boyfriend’s a real dumbass, you know that, right?” She doesn’t object or say anything, but when I turn my attention back to the field, I swear she nods.

The Mustang takes the embankment faster than I did, flying into the field. They’re whooping out the windows as Jeremy cuts the wheel left and then right, fishtailing toward us.

As soon as they’d pulled that shit on the road, nearly wrecking the truck, Jake would’ve been out and in their face, restoring honor to the Bennett name with a few simple but pointed words. Embodying everything I’ve never been able to muster—the duty, the courage—in all my eighteen years. There’d be two choices for Will: get your ass going or get your ass beat.

But what Jake would’ve done is past tense. The time before he became a blank wall. And that says nothing of Mallory, who is pale as the moon. I cut the wheel hard to the right, hoping I can outrun Will and Jeremy to one of the back roads. As I do, the tires raise a clump of mud high in the air. It lands on the windshield with a thud, and Mallory jumps.

Mud.

I hit the wipers, and as they work back-and-forth—Mud.

“Hold on,” I say.

I push the truck forward even faster, away from the road and toward the woods, black and toothy in the near distance. Mallory has been here how many times? Has run through this field in her bare feet, getting stuck up to her knees in the mud that’s present no matter what season it is. Does she know where I’m headed now? Does she remember, too?

Either way, I hit the gas.

It’s time to end this.

If you live in North Carolina and own a truck, you know about mud. It’s you and your buddies hopping into the cab with a mind for the sort of aimless joy that is being covered head to toe, bumper to bumper. And this particular field, owned by my grandpa and soon to be passed down to my dad, is an abyss for any vehicle not jacked up a good ten inches.

They’re never going to get that Mustang out.

When we hit the mud, it’s like Moses parting the sea: a shower on both sides of the truck. Or maybe it’s a baptism because as soon as that mud goes flying, Mallory finally comes to life, unleashing a banshee-wildcat howl that nearly pulls my hands from the steering wheel. Mud spits in the window, a thick stripe of it now on her cheek, her dress. She keeps screaming as I push the accelerator, kicking the wet earth up to the sky.

Will and Jeremy don’t know what’s happening until it’s too late. The ground swallows the front wheels of their car, locking them in place. When it happens, I almost feel bad. The road’s a half mile back, and they’ll look like escaped convicts by the time they make it out. But that doesn’t stop me from circling back one time and covering the Mustang.

When we’re a hundred yards away, I cut my lights, letting the high moon show me the way across the field, toward the gravel road at the end of the property. I slow down until I can hear my tires rolling over the grass. We’re almost to the road when a train track glints in the darkness, sparking a memory so true, so deep I nearly slam on the brakes.

The bridge is nothing but concrete and rebar, no different from countless others in this town, but as soon as we pull up on it, I smile. I kill the engine and stare at the overgrown weeds, the dead leaves piled in one corner. The only sound is crickets as Mallory wipes mud from her face and picks a couple of stray clumps from her hair. We could be kids again, still angry that summer was over.

Mallory brushes another clump from her