Page 160 of Wayfarers

for the second time in a week, the only

difference being that this time I only

had one arm that worked like it should.

Sylvie

“So you’re mad at Knox for being just like you. Afraid that he’s not worthy. Afraid to be seen for who he is.”

I’m looking at my knees. “Yeah. I know I’m a hypocrite.”

The woman snorts. “Honey, I think you and that boy are just two kids in a lot of pain. You should be proud that you both were able to put that aside for a little while and be happy together.”

“But what if I don’t deserve it? Happiness?”

“Well, that’s not up to you,” she says equitably. “Is it?”

“I guess not.”

“Think I deserved to get into a fender bender?”

“No,” I say, and I’m horrified. “Definitely not.”

“Then why would I think that about you?” She shakes her head. “Someone told me once that grief is like a seashell. You start in the center and work your way out. At first you’re making these tight little circles. You confront your grief every five minutes. Then maybe a few times a day. Then a little less, a little at a time. I think guilt can be like that too.”

“How long does it take to get out of the shell?”

“Oh. You don’t. The shell goes on forever.”

Somehow that’s a relief. I don’t ever want to be off the hook.

“But each circle through it takes longer and longer. Gives you time to get wiser. One day you’ll greet the grief as an old friend of yours.”

“The guilt too?”

“Yeah,” she says. “The guilt too. Eventually, when you run into each other, it’ll be a chance meeting. Like—like a tiny car accident. You and the guilt strike each other in the road. There it is, looking at you, wanting something. And maybe you smart for a little bit. But then you pick yourself back up. Maybe”—suddenly, she smiles—“maybe, you take yourself to Staples.”

Blue and red lights, no sirens, as a police car pulls into the parking lot. The cop that gets out looks at us like he doesn’t really believe what he’s seeing. “One of you called in an accident?”

“Yep,” the woman says. “Lara Scheffler. I called it in.”

“I’m Sylvie Blake.”

Lara extends a hand to me, and I shake it.

The cop blinks. “You two didn’t know each other before this?”

“Nope,” Lara says.

“Because you seem pretty friendly.”

“Yep.” Lara reaches into the cooler. “Want a Diet Coke?”

The cop declines. He circles our vehicles, taking notes, and then disappears into his cruiser with our insurance information. It takes forever. I didn’t realize that, the last time. I hadn’t been in any state to notice.

“Where are you off to next?” I ask her.

“Oh. My uncle left me some land. Used to be a gas station, right off I-55. I’m gonna go check it out and see if I should sell it, or turn it into something.”