I'm Thinking Of Ending Things Part 11

"Do you want to stop for something sweet?"

We were on a mini roll there, conversationally, but I've stopped asking questions. I haven't mentioned Jake's family again. I shouldn't pester him. Maybe privacy is a good thing. I'm still thinking about what he said, though. I felt like I was starting to really understand him, appreciate things he's been through. Sympathize.

I also haven't mentioned my headache again, not since we got in the car. The wine made it worse, maybe. The air in that old house. My whole head is sore. I'm holding it in such a way, with my neck taut and slightly forward, so that the pressure is relieved somewhat, only somewhat. Any movement, b.u.mp, or twitch is uncomfortable.

"We could stop, sure," I say.

"But do you want to?"

"I'm indifferent, but happy to if you want to."

"You and your nonanswers."

"What?"

"The only place open this late is Dairy Queen. But they'll definitely have some nondairy stuff." So he does remember. About my intolerance.

It's dark outside the car. We've been talking less on the drive home than on the drive there. Both tired, I guess; introspective. Hard to tell if it's snowing. I think it is. Not heavily, though. Not yet. It's just starting. I laugh, more to myself, and look out the window.

"What?" he asks.

"It's pretty funny. I can't eat dessert at your parents' place because there's dairy in it, and we're stopping to get something to eat at Dairy Queen. And it's the middle of winter. It's freezing out; it's snowing, I think. It's fine; it's just funny." I think it's other things, too, but decide not to say anything.

"I haven't had a Skor Blizzard in ages. I think that's what I'll get," he says. Skor Blizzard. I knew it. So predictable.

We pull in. The lot is empty. There's a pay phone booth in one corner and a metal garbage bin in the other. Don't see too many pay phones anymore. Most have been removed.

"I still have a headache," I say. "Think I'm tired."

"I thought it was better."

"Not really." It's worse. It's bordering on a migraine.

"How bad? Migrainous?"

"It's not too bad."

Outside the car, it's cold, windy. The snow is getting heavier now for sure. More swirling than falling. It's not staying on the ground yet. It will once it gets going. Hopefully I'll be in bed by then, with some Advil. If my headache is gone tomorrow, I'll spend the morning shoveling. The cold feels nice on my head.

"Has the feel of a big storm," says Jake. "Wind is freezing."

Looking into the brightly lit Dairy Queen makes me feel nauseated. Of course the Dairy Queen is empty. You have to wonder why it's even open tonight. I noticed the hours on the door and calculated that they're closing in eight minutes. There is no bell chime or the expected overhead Muzak upon entry. The empty tables are clean, no balled napkins or empty cups or crumbs. The store is prepped for close. The dull, metallic drone from the machines and freezers creates a c.u.mulative noise. It reminds me of a dial tone. There's a scent in here, too, almost chemical. We wait, looking up at the glowing menu.

He's reading the menu. I can tell by his eyes, the way he's touching his chin. "I'm sure they'll have something nondairy," he says again.

Jake's already holding a long, red plastic spoon he grabbed from a bin. It's kind of irritating how he grabbed a spoon for himself and we don't even know if there's anything I can eat. We still have plenty of driving ahead of us. A longer trip if the storm gets worse. Maybe we should have stayed the night at the farm. But I just wasn't totally comfortable. I don't know. Jake yawns.

"Are you good, or do you want me to drive the rest of the way home?" I ask.

"No, no, I'm fine. I had less to drink than you did."

"We had the exact same."

"But it affects you way more. Subjectivity and all that." He yawns again, wider, this time bringing his hand up to his mouth. "Yeah, see, they have different flavors of lemonade. And it's iced, dairy-free lemonade," he says. "You'll like that."

"Like. Sure," I say. "I'll have one."

Two employees have emerged from a back room. They look displeased that we've disturbed them. Youngish, teenagers, both of them. They have different shapes, different body types, but in all other facets are identical. They have the same dyed hair, the same tight black pants, the same brown boots. Both would so clearly rather be anywhere else, and I don't blame them.

"We'll have a small lemonade. And actually make it two lemonades. How big is your medium?" Jake asks.

One of the girls grabs a largish-looking paper cup and holds it up. "Medium," she says, flatly. The other girl turns away and giggles.

"That's fine," he says. "One small, one medium."

"The small should be a strawberry lemonade, please, not just the normal lemonade," I say to the girl. "There's no dairy in that, right?"

The girl asks the other girl: "There's no ice cream in the lemonade, is there?" She is still giggling and has a hard time answering. Now the first girl is laughing, too. They're exchanging glances.

"How bad is the allergy?" asks the second girl.

"It won't kill me. I just wouldn't feel well."

It's almost like they recognize us, and it's weird for them, the same way it would be if a friend of one of their parents came in, or one of their teachers showed up unexpectedly and they had to serve them. That's how they're reacting. I look at Jake. He seems oblivious. The first girl looks at him, then whispers something to the second girl. They both laugh again.

A third girl now. She comes from the back. She must have been listening, because without a word she starts to make my lemonade. The other girls don't say anything to her, either, or acknowledge her presence.

The third girl looks up from the machine. "Sorry for the smell," she says. "They're doing some varnishing in the back."

Varnishing? In a Dairy Queen? "No worries," I say.

It's a sudden feeling, but unmistakable. I know this girl. I recognize her but have no idea from where or when. Her face, her hair. Her build. I know her.

She doesn't say anything else. She just sets to work making the lemonade. Or she preps the cups, anyway. She pushes some b.u.t.tons, turns some k.n.o.bs. She stands in front of the machine like she's waiting in line at a store. As the machine does the work, the girl holds her hand on one of the empty cups underneath, waiting for the machine to dispense the fluid.

This has never happened to me before, recognizing a perfect stranger. I can't say anything to Jake. It would sound too weird. It is weird.

She's skinny and frail, this girl. Something's not right. I feel bad for her. Her dark hair is long and plain and falls over her back and much of her face. Her hands are small. She's not wearing any jewelry, no necklace or rings. She appears fragile and anxious. She has a rash. A bad one.

Starting an inch or so above her wrist are raised b.u.mps, just large enough for me to see. They get worse, redder, up her elbow. I'm looking intensely at her rash. It looks sore and itchy. It's dry, too, and flaky. She must be scratching it. When I look up she's looking at me. Staring. I feel my face blush, divert my eyes to the floor.

Jake isn't paying any attention. I sense that she's still looking at me, though. I hear one of the girls snicker. The skinny one lids the cup and puts it down on the counter. Her hand moves up and her fingers start to scratch her rash. Not aggressively. I don't want to keep looking. She's sort of picking at the b.u.mps, almost trying to dig them out of her arm. There's a tremble, now, in her hand.

The machine whirls on. Of course, none of these girls wants to be here. This antiseptic Dairy Queen with fridges and freezers and fluorescent lighting and metal appliances and red spoons, straws wrapped in plastic, and cup dispensers and the quiet but constant buzz overhead.

It would be even harder if two of your coworkers were picking on you. Is that why the skinny girl seems distraught?

It's not just this Dairy Queen-it's this place, this town, if it is a town. I'm unclear what makes a town a town, or when a town becomes a city. Maybe this isn't either. It feels lost, detached. Hidden from the world. I'd go moldy out here if I couldn't leave, if there was nowhere else to go.

Somewhere inside the silver machine, ice is being crushed and blended with concentrated lemon juice and lots of liquid sugar. No dairy, but it'll be sweet, I'm sure of that.

The icy lemonade flows out of the machine into the second cup. When it's full, the machine stops, and the girl puts a plastic cover on it, too. She carries them over to where I'm standing. Up close, she looks even worse. It's her eyes.

"Thanks," I say, reaching for the lemonade. I'm not expecting an answer, so I am taken aback when she speaks.

"I'm worried," she mumbles, more to herself than me. I look around to see if the other girls hear her. They aren't paying attention. Neither is Jake.

"Excuse me?"

She's looking down at the floor. She's holding her hands in front of her.

"I shouldn't be saying this, I know I shouldn't. I know what happens. I'm scared. I know. It's not good. It's bad."

"Are you okay?"

"You don't have to go."

I can feel my pulse skipping ahead. Jake is getting straws, I think, and napkins from the dispenser. We won't need spoons after all.

One of the girls laughs, louder this time. The skinny girl in front of me is still looking down, hair covering her face.

"What are you scared of?"

"It's not what I'm scared of. It's who I'm scared for."

"Who are you scared for?"

She picks up the cups. "For you," she says, handing me the cups before disappearing back into the kitchen.

JAKE IS OBLIVIOUS, AS USUAL. We get back to the car, and he doesn't mention anything about the girls in the Dairy Queen. At times he can be very unaware, very self-obsessed.

"Did you see that girl?"

"Which one?"

"The one who made the lemonades?"

"There were several girls."

"No, only one girl made the drinks. Skinny. Long hair."

"I don't know," he says. "I don't know. Weren't they all skinny?"

I want to say more. I want to talk about that girl and her rash and her sad eyes. I want to tell him what she said. I hope she has someone to talk to. I want to understand why she's afraid. It doesn't make sense for her to be afraid for me.

"How's your drink?" Jake asks. "Too sweet?"

"It's okay. Not too sweet."

"That's why I don't like getting those iced drinks, the lemonades and slushies, because they're always cloyingly sweet. I should have gotten a Blizzard."

"It must be nice to be able to have ice cream when you want it."

"You know what I'm saying."

I shake the cup in my hand and push the straw down and up, the friction making a squeaking sound. "It's sour, too," I say. "Fake sour, but sour. It evens out the sweet."

Jake's drink is melting in the cup holder. Soon it will be completely liquid. He's drunk about half.

"I always forget how hard these are to finish. I only needed a small. There's nothing medium about the medium."

I lean forward and turn up the heat.

"Cold?" asks Jake.

"Yeah, a little. Probably from the lemonade."

"We're also in a snowstorm. Whose idea was it to get iced drinks, anyway?"

He looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he says. "I get sick of these after four sips."

"I'm not saying anything," I say, raising both hands. "Not a word."

We both laugh.

This will probably be the last time I'm in a car with Jake. It seems a shame when he's like this, joking, almost happy. Maybe I shouldn't end things. Maybe I should stop thinking about it and just enjoy him. Enjoy us. Enjoy getting to know someone. Why am I putting so much pressure on us? Maybe I will eventually fall in love and lose any fears I have. Maybe it will get better. Maybe that's possible. Maybe that's how it works with time and effort. But if you can't tell the other person what you're thinking, what does that mean?

I think that's a bad sign. What if he was thinking the same things about me right now? What if he was the one thinking about ending things but also was still having fun, or not entirely sick of me yet, so was keeping me around just to see what would happen. If that's what was going on in his head, I'd be upset.

I should end it. I have to.

Whenever I hear the "it's not you, it's me" cliche, it's hard not to laugh. But it really is true in this case. Jake is just Jake. He's a good person. He's smart and handsome, in his way. If he were an a.s.shole or stupid or mean or ugly or anything, then it would be his fault that I end things, kind of. But he's not any of those things. He's a person. I just don't think the two of us are a match. An ingredient is missing, and, if I'm being honest, it always has been.

So that's probably what I'll say: It's not you, it's me. It's my issue. I'm the one with the problem. I'm putting you in an unfair position. You're a good person. I need to work through some things. You need to move on. We tried, we did. And you never know what'll happen in the future.

"Looks like you're done," says Jake.

I realize I've put my lemonade in the cup holder. It's melting. I am done. Done.