The Edge of Never, The Edge of Always: 2-Book Collection. J. Redmerski A.

starting to regret this because the bus ride sucks.

      I hear the bus intercom squeal once and then the driver’s voice:

      “We’ll be stopping for a break in five minutes,” he says. “You will have fifteen minutes to grab a bite to eat before we get back on the road. Fifteen minutes. I will not wait longer, so if you’re not back in that time the bus will leave without you.” The speaker goes dead.

      The announcement causes everyone to stir in their seats and gather their purses and such—nothing like talk of getting to stretch your legs after hours on a bus to wake everyone up.

      We pull into a spacious lot where several semis are parked, and in between a convenience store, a car wash and a fast food restaurant. Passengers are standing up in the center of the aisle before the bus even comes to a stop. I’m one of them. My back hurts so bad.

      We file out of the bus one by one, and the second I step off I cherish the feel of concrete underfoot and the mild breeze on my face. I don’t care that this area is hick-in-the-sticks remote, or that the convenience store gas pumps are so outdated that I know the restrooms will probably be scary; I’m just glad to be anywhere but cooped-up inside that bus. I practically glide (like an ungraceful, wounded gazelle) across the blacktop parking lot and toward the restaurant. I take advantage of the restroom first and when I come back out there are several people in line in front of me. I stare up at the menu, trying to decide between a large fry or vanilla shake—never was a big eater of fast food. And finally when I walk out of the restaurant with a vanilla shake, I see the guy from the bus sitting on the grass that separates the parking lots. His knees are bent and he’s eating a burger. I don’t look at him when I start to walk past, but apparently it’s not enough to keep him from bothering me.

      “Eight more minutes before you have to crawl back into that tin can,” he says. “You’re really going to spend that precious time in there?”

      I stop next to a little tree still being held up by a stick in the ground and tied with pink fabric.

      “It’s just eight minutes,” I say. “Won’t make that much of a difference.”

      He takes a huge bite of his burger, chews and swallows it down.

      “Imagine if you were buried alive,” he says and takes a drink of soda. “You wouldn’t have much time before you suffocated to death. If only they’d gotten to you eight minutes earlier, hell, even one minute, you’d still be alive.”

      “OK, I get it,” I say.

      “I’m not contagious,” he says and then takes another bite.

      I guess I have been sort of a bitch. I mean, in a way he kind of deserved it, but he’s really not being obnoxious or anything, so there’s no reason to keep the defenses all the way up. I’d rather not make any enemies on this trip if I can help it.

      “Whatever,” I say and take a seat on the grass a couple of feet in front of him.

      “So why Idaho?” he asks, though he looks at his food and all around him more than he looks directly at me.

      “Going to see my sister,” I lie. “She just had a baby.”

      He nods and swallows.

      “Why Wyoming?” I ask, hoping to divert the topic from myself.

      “Going to visit my dad,” he says. “He’s dying. Inoperable brain tumor.” He takes another bite. It doesn’t seem like what he just told me bothers him too much.

      “Oh …”

      “Don’t worry about it,” he says, looking right at me this time for a brief moment. “We all gotta go sometime. My old man isn’t worried about it and told us not to be, either.” He smiles and looks at me again. “Actually, he told us if we do any of that cryin’ bullshit, that he’d write us out of his will.”

      I suck on my vanilla shake for a moment, only to be doing something to keep my mouth from having to respond to the stuff he’s saying. I’m not sure if I could anyway, really.

      He takes another sip.

      “What’s your name?” he asks, setting his drink on the grass.

      I wonder if I should give him my real name. “Cam,” I say, settling on the short version.

      “Short for what?”

      I didn’t expect that.

      I hesitate, my eyes trailing. “Camryn,” I admit. I figure with all the lies I’m going to have to keep track of, I might as well be truthful about my first name at least. It’s one less-significant piece of information I don’t have to remember to keep under wraps.

      “I’m Andrew. Andrew Parrish.”

      I nod and smile slimly, not about to tell him my last name is Bennett. He’ll have to make do with the first-name-basis only.

      As he finishes the last of his burger and scarfs down a few fries, I secretly study him and notice the bottom of a tattoo poking out from underneath both sleeves of his t-shirt. He can’t be older than mid-twenties, if even that.

      “So, how old are you?” It still felt too personal of a question. I hope he doesn’t read something in it that’s not there.

      “Twenty-five,” he says. “What about you?”

      “Twenty.”

      He glances at me ponderingly, pauses and then subtly purses his lips.

      “Well, it’s good to meet you, twenty-year-old Cam short for Camryn heading to Idaho to see her sister who just had a baby.”

      My lips smile, but my face doesn’t. It’ll take a while before any of my smiles directed at him can be genuine. Genuine smiles can sometimes give the wrong impression. At least this way, I can be civil and kind, but not the civil kind who after a few big smiles ends up in a trunk with their throat slit.

      “So, are you from Wyoming?” I ask and take another sip of my shake.

      He nods once. “Yeah, was born there, but parents divorced when I was six and we moved to Texas.”

      Texas. How funny. Maybe all of my crap-talk about their cowboy boots and reputation is finally catching up to me. And he doesn’t look like he’s from Texas, at least, not the stereotypical way that most people assume everyone from Texas looks like.

      “That’s where I’ll be headin’ back to after visiting my dad—what about you?”

      OK, to lie or not to lie? Oh screw it. It’s not like he’s a private investigator sent by my dad to get information. As long as I steer clear of #1, my last name, and #2, any addresses or phone numbers that might lead him back to my house in the event that I ever go back home, and then end up in his trunk with my throat slit. I think telling mostly the truth will be a lot easier than trying to conjure up a fitting lie for just about every question that he asks me and then having to remember all of them later. This is going to be a long bus ride, after all, and just like he said, we’ve got several buses to share before we part ways.

      “North Carolina,” I say.

      He looks me over. “Well, you don’t look like you’re from North Carolina.”

       Huh? OK, that was really weird.

      “Well, what’s a girl from North Carolina supposed to look like?”

      “You’re very literal,” he says, grinning.

      “And you’re sort of confusing.”

      “Nah,” he says with a harmless, humorous snarl, “just outspoken and sometimes people can’t deal with that kind of shit. It’s like, you ask that guy over there if your ass looks big in those jeans and he’ll tell you, no. You ask me, and I’ll tell you the truth—anything out of people’s usual expectations throws them off track.”

      “Really?”