Chapter 5

                                    

                                          
A//N: I have a feeling that you guys are not liking this story 😞
                          
THURSDAY, MARCH 14
24 days left
                          
For a while, we drive in silence. I'm a little nervous that Harry is going to open the car door and launch himself out onto the gravel road. I'm not sure the impact would kill him, but it'd still put me in a sticky situation.
When he reaches for the radio dial instead of the door, I take a shallow breath of relief. He chooses Kendall's favorite station—the one that plays the same top five hits on repeat. All the songs seem to be about getting trashed, wearing glittery short dresses, and dancing the night away. I make a face.
"What?" he says. "I don't get you. You seem like such a—"
He makes a motion, crossing his arms in the air like a letter X, which I take to mean "shut up" and so I do. The one thing I'm pretty good at is following orders. Wait, I guess that's not true. I never follow Mr. Lendon's orders, though most of the time I at least try to pretend like I do.
Harry turns the radio off. "Sorry. I didn't know you were such a music snob."
"I'm a nothing snob," I say.
"Not a snob and not a soccer mom," he says. "You have a lot going for you."
"Right," I say, and then test the waters. "A lot of potential wasted on April seventh." Potential energy. I wonder if Harry ever thinks about the physics of death.
"Here's to that," he says, pretending to raise a drink in the air. "Cheers." I guess the songs on Kendall's radio station are a good fit for his interests.
We bump along the road for a little bit longer in silence. I reach for the radio dial and turn it to the classical music station. He doesn't comment on my music choice. The landscape slowly becomes hillier. We reach a sharp curve in the road and turn away from the river, heading toward the rolling hills. The grass is still brown and dry from the winter and most of the trees are still barren. Spring is running late this year. I roll down the window a little and the moist, cool air slips into the car. On certain days, you can smell bourbon in the air, the sweet rye scent coming from a distillery that's a few miles away, but today, I only smell mud and damp grass. The wind slaps against my cheeks and I resist the urge to look over at him, keeping my eyes focused on the road.
"I can't drive anymore because of something that happened last year," he finally volunteers. "That's why you're always going to have to drive. I had my mom drop me off earlier at the root beer stand. She was so thrilled that I was leaving the house for the first time in months to meet a friend." He gives me a look. "I told her you were a new friend. My mom is psyched."
So his parents are worried about him. That's kind of bad. That means heightened supervision. But I guess that's why he needs me, his trusted Suicide Partner. "Got it," I say. "Well, do you think you can at least give me directions so I know where to drop you off?"
He pauses and his bottom lip twists, like he's debating whether to talk or not.
"What?" I prompt.
"Can I ask you for a favor?"
My first task as his partner. Something inside me sways like a rocking chair in an empty room—it's both lonely and comforting. "Sure. What is it?"
"Can we stop at the fishing supply store on Main?"
I wrinkle my nose. "The fishing supply store?"
"Yeah. I need to pick up some earthworms."
I blink and sneak a quick glance at him. He's staring straight ahead. His face muscles are relaxed, there's no sign that he's joking. "Um, okay," I say. "Just tell me how to get there."
"Stay straight on this road until it comes to the fork by the bridge. Then stay left and you'll be on Willis's main drag. The fishing supply store is on the right corner of the intersection between Main and Burns." Harry's voice is calm and steady as he delivers the directions. It seems like he's a regular at the fishing supply store. Weird.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and try to focus on the music. The radio station is playing Mozart's Symphony no. 40, but even the crisp, minor-key violin notes aren't able to distract me. "Why do you need earthworms? Are you big into fishing or something?"
He makes a sound that's something between a grunt and a laugh. "No."
Evidently, Harry is not a man of many words. "No?"
"No, I'm not into fishing." He squirms, moving his body so he can be closer to the passenger-side door. His knees knock against the dashboard and I consider suggesting that he could move his seat back if he's uncomfortable, but I don't.
"Okay. Then I don't get it. What am I missing?"
"Huh?"
I guess he's really going to make me spell it out. "Why do you need earthworms if you aren't into fishing"