Cunningham Family: Lost And Found Part 7

"Ward," I say softly.

My voice seems to snap him back to reality, and the car swerves slightly. Someone honks behind us.

"Ward, pull over. Please," I say.

He doesn't look at me. I reach out and lay my fingers on his arm.

"Pull over. Just for a minute."

He doesn't say anything, but he steers off at the next exit. There's an abandoned gas station just off the ramp, and he pulls into the lot and parks next to one of the old pumps. The attached convenience store is covered in graffiti and the pavement is marked with potholes and overgrown with weeds, but as unwelcoming as this place may look, we just need a place where we can just sit and calm down.

Ward turns off the car. The keys tremble in his hand as he pulls them out of the ignition.

"Ward," I say again, as if somehow hearing his name will bring him back to himself.

His jaw tightens. He finally turns and looks at me, and his eyes are wild.

"He hit you," he says, his voice cracking. "He f.u.c.king hit you!"

"I got in the way," I say. Not because I actually believe that excuses the matter, but because Ward needs to hear something calm and logical right now.

But my words have the opposite of their intended effect. He turns and throws open the car door. He's outside before I even have a chance to undo my seatbelt. And by the time I do, by the time my door's open and my feet hit the cracked pavement, he's already pounding his fists against the roof of the car.

"f.u.c.k this!" he says. "f.u.c.k all of this!" He makes a sound like an animal as his fists come down again. The car shakes.

I've never seen him like this. Nowhere even close.

"Ward," I say, my voice breaking on the word.

I have no idea how he hears me over the pounding of his fists against the car, but he freezes. For a moment, he doesn't even flinch. His head is still bowed, and the only movement is the rise and fall of his chest.

And then he lifts his head. The expression in his eyes is so raw that it nearly destroys me. He straightens and moves toward me, walking slowly around the car. His eyes-so full of anger and pain-never leave mine. When he's in front of me, he doesn't touch me, even though he's close enough for me to feel the heat coming off of his skin.

"This is all my fault." he says. "I should've controlled my temper."

He reaches up, and for a brief instant I think he's going to touch my throbbing cheek, but at the last second he pulls his fingers away.

"You didn't hit me," I remind him.

"I might as well have."

I shake my head. But he goes on.

"I hit him first. I shouldn't have. I should have just walked away. But he grabbed your arm and..." He rubs his face. "It's no excuse. Any of it. If I'd just walked away, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

This time when he reaches toward my face, he doesn't pull back. His finger brushes against the sensitive skin on my cheek, and I bite down on my tongue to keep from sucking in a breath. I don't want him to think he's hurting me. I close my eyes. Take comfort from his delicate a.s.sessment. But suddenly he draws his hand away again.

I open my eyes.

"You were just trying to protect me," I tell him. "You can't blame yourself for that."

"I wasn't thinking. You were standing right there."

"It's just a bruise. It'll heal."

"It's not just a bruise." He jerks away from me and shoves his hand through his hair. "You were punched in the f.u.c.king face!"

"You've been punched in the face dozens of times," I point out. "And you seem fine to me."

"That's different."

"Because I'm a girl?"

"Exactly!"

I'm about to argue, but Ward steps right in front of me again. He takes me gently by the chin, but his eyes are still dark with emotion.

"Can't you see?" he says, his voice suddenly soft. "All I want to do is keep you safe. And if I can't do that..."

I lay my hand over his. "I'm safe."

"You're not. Half of your face is going to be purple by morning."

"And by next week, it'll be the normal color again."

He closes his eyes. "I started a fight in an enclosed s.p.a.ce. With you right next to me. If it wasn't a fist that hit you, it might have been a table, or a piece of silverware, or G.o.d knows what else. I wasn't f.u.c.king thinking. I just wanted to hurt that guy for those things he said about you. I was the one who lost my head."

It's hard to hear him say those things. Maybe he could have been more careful. Maybe he should have controlled his temper. Maybe, if I'm being honest, he does deserve some of the blame for this. But we can't bury ourselves beneath "maybes" and "what ifs." Maybe I shouldn't have jumped in the middle of the fight. Maybe I shouldn't have grabbed that stupid newspaper that started all of this in the first place. I saw Ward's eyes when I threw myself between him and Bill. He would never, ever intentionally hurt me. And if I thought he was capable of such a thing, if I feared even for a moment that he'd ever lay a hand on me, I wouldn't be here right now.

"Have you ever hit a woman?" I ask him.

His eyes snap to mine. "Never."

"Would you ever hit me?"

There's the pain again. "Never."

I nod. "Then that's all either of us needs to know."

He continues to stare at me, his eyes sharp with feeling. There's a lump in my throat, but I swallow it down.

I touch his cheek, feel the roughness of his stubble beneath the palm of my hand. His skin is hot-almost as hot as mine.

"You'd never intentionally hurt me," I whisper. "I know that deep in my heart." If anything, he's sacrificed too much for me already.

His hand closes over mine and his eyes fall closed again. He takes a deep breath, his fingers clenching mine.

The emotion swells up in me so quickly that I almost say it again. I almost tell him I love him. I love him so much that it hurts to keep it down, but keep it down I do. I haven't forgotten what I told him over our iced tea in the restaurant-that there's still a chance for him, that he can still walk away from this escapade of ours and go piece his old life back together.

But it's hard to hide my feelings when he's hold me like this. When he's looking at me like I'm his whole world.

I pull away.

"We should get on the road," I say. "I want to get as far away from that restaurant as possible before we stop for the night." The sun is already sinking, and the sky has taken on an orange hue.

He's still watching me silently. I fumble awkwardly for the car door.

"I guess it's peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches again," I say, trying to sound cheerful. "Think you can choke another one down?"

"Louisa."

There's a weight to his tone that makes me look up. He looks like he wants to say something.

"What?" I ask in a whisper.

He shakes his head. "Nothing. Let's go."

He turns and walks back around the car to the driver's side. I watch his eyes take in the damage he caused-there are several visible dents in the roof of his car-and his mouth tightens slightly.

I climb back into my seat. There's a tension between us that wasn't there before, and I don't know what to do. I'm used to creating rifts, but I know nothing about fixing them.

Ward starts the car in silence. I turn and look at him, trying to figure out what I might say to make things right again. But his profile offers no answers.

My cheek throbs, and I resist the urge to poke at it. I don't want to do anything to draw attention to what I'm sure is becoming a very visible reminder of the last horrible hour.

An even more horrible thought occurs to me as Ward pulls back onto the highway.

Maybe you can use this, a terrible voice in my head tells me. Draw out the tension. Widen the distance between you two. If we drift away from each other, then there will be nothing to keep him here. He'll realize his mistake and return to his old life before anyone even suspects his involvement with me.

Am I strong enough to actively push him away, even for his own sake?

Maybe you need to be, I think. Even if it breaks your heart into pieces.

We don't say more than a word to each other for the rest of the drive. Finally, sometime after nine o'clock and just outside of Washington D.C., Ward pulls us into a place called the Sunshine Motel. It's painted taupe. Definitely not what I think of when I hear the word "sunshine."

It's my turn to pay. We've never made any official sort of arrangement-Ward gets weird whenever money comes up between us, like he's forgotten that I'm as broke as he is these days-but we've come to a sort of unspoken arrangement. He pays for a night, then I pay for a night.

But as I start toward the manager's office, Ward stops me.

"You should probably let me get this one," he says.

"It's my turn," I remind him.

He shakes his head. "It's not about the money." When it's clear that I'm missing his point, he sighs and says, "They're going to take one look at your face and think you're in trouble. That I..." He can't even finish the sentence.

Oh. OH.

I hadn't even considered my face. Even now, it hurts when I speak-I can only imagine what it must look like. And if I'm traveling with a big, muscled guy like Ward, people are definitely going to jump to the wrong conclusions. The very thought makes me sick to my stomach.

"I'll wait by the car," I tell him. "But I'll get the next one."

He nods, even though we both know my face won't look any better tomorrow.

Ten minutes later, we're settling into our room for the night. This motel's nicer than some of the others we've stayed in, at least. The room smells clean, and there's no sign of any roaches or ants upon first inspection. As a bonus, the television actually works. I flip to a late-night talk show and sink down on the bed.

Ward's more restless. We don't really have much to unpack, but he's walking back and forth across the room, fiddling with things. He opens the blinds, then closes them. He plays with the thermostat. He toys with the empty ice bucket. I want to say something to him, but I know he's still upset about the fight.

Finally he looks at me and says, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

He doesn't even give me the chance to reply before he's out the door. I hear his footsteps going down the stairs, and a moment later, his car engine purrs to life.

And he's gone.

There's something final about the sound of a car driving off, about the man you love pulling away from you. He's only gone for a few minutes before the doubts creep in: Maybe he doesn't actually intend to come back. Maybe his guilt will keep him away.

I lean back on the bed and force myself to take a deep breath. And then another.

He's coming back. Of course he's coming back. I'm not worried about him leaving me. But if I'm freaking out now, what will happen when I convince him to leave me for good? If I can't go a few minutes without him, how will I ever be able to let him go?

Loneliness yawns in my gut. I try to focus on the television, but I can't. Finally I stand and march into the bathroom.

For the first time, I get a good look at myself. And I gasp out loud.

Ward was right-almost half of my face is purple. I knew there was swelling, but it looks even worse than it feels. Again, I can't help but poke at the sensitive skin, and I regret it immediately. I can feel the pain all the way across my skull and partway down my neck.

No wonder Ward's been freaking out. I look awful. Every time he looks at me, the evidence of his mistake is staring him right in the face. I'm wearing a big, ugly, purple symbol of his shame.

My eyes burn as I flip on the shower, but I fight back the tears. Even crying sounds painful right now. I wish there was a way to take back this whole evening, to drive past that barbecue joint and completely miss that stack of newspapers bearing my face. To never throw myself in the middle of that fight.

I peel off my clothes, wincing as the fabric of my dress brushes against my cheek as I pull the garment over my head. This morning things were beautiful. Even though I knew this adventure couldn't last, I planned to enjoy it for as long as possible. How did things turn sour so quickly?

I step beneath the water. It's cold, but I don't mind. They don't offer soap or complementary mini-bottles of shampoo in a place like this, but that's okay. I just want to rinse off. The water pressure is nonexistent, but I keep the tender skin of my face free of the stream anyway. I just tilt my head back and let the water soak my hair.

I'm not sure how long I stand there. Long enough for my whole body to go numb from the cold. I wish my mind would go numb, too. I used to be so good at pushing the feelings away, but somehow I've broken myself of that habit. Now I don't know what to do with all of these emotions rushing through me. I don't want to cry. I want to scream and break things and run until I can't breathe. I want to hold Ward against me until I can't tell our heartbeats apart.

I'm shivering. I turn and flip off the water, and my fingers are stiff. My toes, too. I grab a towel and rub myself dry, continuing to avoid my face. The cold has successfully dulled most of the sensations of my body, but I'm still a wreck inside.

When I return to the room, Ward still isn't there.

I think about pulling my dress on again, but I don't feel like it. Instead I flop down on the bed, the towel still wrapped around me, and let my head fall back on the pillow. There's some comedian on the TV, and I try to listen to his jokes, but none of them are very funny.

Ward will be back, I tell myself. He won't just leave me here. Ward is many things, but he's not a coward-that's me. I'm the needy one who can't seem to be alone for an hour.

This is probably how Ian felt, I find myself thinking, all those times I ran from him. Back then, love seemed like such a terrifying thing. Now? Now I know that I was right to be afraid. I've never been particularly smart or responsible or stable, but this is the first time I've felt weak. How do people deal with emotions of this intensity? How do they even function?

I must fall asleep. One minute I'm staring up at the ceiling, and the next I'm woken by the lightest of touches against my hand.