he doesn’t let his mind wander back to scoops too often — between him and the fonder memories of that summer waits a bone saw and a needle — but she’s given him permission. thank god, nance says, and it’s for the both of them. the right one to thank. the only gratitude he can remember showing anyone had been a handshake, shortly followed by a ‘now thank your father.’ the last time he had thought about that, he was sitting in the back of an ambulance. the last time he had seen his family was . . .
they’re lucky scoops was hiring, and they’re lucky that robin buckley hadn’t interviewed at waldenbooks or sam goody; that she was bored; that her boredom followed her wherever she went, and that it had inspired her to pick up spanish, french, italian, and pig latin. he can hear the surprise in her compliment — sincere, if he still knows nancy wheeler — and he powers through the lump in his throat to assure her “ she is. certifiable . . . no, ” he quickly realizes, shocking out a laugh of his own, bringing a hand to rub the side of his flushing face. “ no, that came out wrong. a genius. what you said. ” and he’s all too aware that what she’s laughing at might as well be the predictability of his blunder. that’s so steve: rocks for brains, but look at him try!
the way she shrinks in her seat tells a different story. it’s a familiar one, though — one he’d nearly forgotten to hold close to the heart. he certainly hadn’t that summer, feeling the bitterness creep up on him like the uncomfortable silence does now. ( had she wanted to debrief ? was he allowed to wonder what he’d missed ? too late, the moment's gone. ) he catches his own eyes in the rearview mirror, finding their focus again after looking to the back of the rv for help. hard to say exactly what the catalyst was: sight, sound, or memory. whatever it was, it has him holding his breath. it isn't the picture of heroism. it isn't worth its weight in thanks and consolations. in the split second that he catches himself, he meets the overdue fear of the kid sitting in the back of that ambulance, and he wants to go home.
nancy waits for him. she's still there, somehow, when he does return: back to the person he's trying to be. back to convince himself and then ( and only then, if at all ) her. “ sorry, ” he finally answers. “ thanks. really, that means - ” but there isn't enough substance in this to go on. how could there be ? he's barely there himself, still hoping to wake up from the nightmare despite his place in it. between here and there, normalcy and a bone saw, are two hands on a steering wheel. if he just pulled over now. if he just said what he meant. if he could.
another breath is held hostage before it can be released without a hitch. just an admission: “ i don't think i'd know how to talk about all this if i tried. ” ( —maybe yellowstone ? end up in some beachside town in california. spend a week parked in the sand. ) “ but maybe, you know . . . once it's over. ”
when he turns to her next, he's aware that he's saying something else.
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