melissa darcey hall

This Can’t be the Ending

Her

She has no choice. She reminds herself of this, chanting it like a mantra: I have no choice, I have no choice, I have no choice, repeated in a da-dum-da-dum-da-dum rhythm. I have no other option. It’s the only thing I can do, the only way to get home.

She walks along the side of the road, arm extended and thumb erect as three cars pass. She hopes for what she knows isn’t likely: a family of four in a spacious van offering her help for nothing in return. It’s the Christian thing to do!

She looks down and assesses her appearance, which she knows plays a role in every woman’s fate. She doesn’t have a change of clothes, so there’s no point regretting the skirt—what else would she wear to a college party in June when the temperature refuses to dip below eighty degrees at night?—but at least it’s conservative, brushing just past her knees. She’s watched enough true crime documentaries to know the dangers of exposed thighs. The tank top is problematic, but luckily she had the foresight to borrow-without-asking her boyfriend’s—well, ex-boyfriend after tonight’s fight—denim jacket on the way out of the house. A phone would be more helpful at this moment, but it’s lost somewhere in the bowels of her ex-boyfriend’s room. She pulls the jacket tighter across her chest, arms stiffly wrapped across each other. It’s not warmth she craves, but security. The heavy denim feels like armor.

She doesn’t need to turn around to hear a car slowing, tires swallowing and spitting out the carcasses of twigs, before coming to a stop. A door opens and feet hit the gravel. She stops, takes a breath before turning to evaluate her potential savior.

“A white knight at your service,” the man chuckles, as if reading her mind.

At twenty, she’s old enough to know he’s not ancient but still young enough to sort him into the distant, unfamiliar category of adult. He could be a parent, a contributor to a 401(k), someone who has a mortgage and understands property taxes. In other words, too old for her. Her friends are shocked by her ageism in a time when dating outside your generation makes you cosmopolitan. But why would I date one of my dad’s coworkers? she wondered.

Even with the full moon, it’s hard to make out this stranger’s features in the dark. She can’t tell if those are highlights or grays on his head. He’s small—only a few inches taller than she is, which is a relief—and lean. His clean Corolla and lack of a gut make her think he doesn’t have children. She is proud of her profiling, a talent that her dad, a detective, taught her. Her skills don’t match her confidence, but she doesn’t know that yet. Her self-assurance and anger at her ex-boyfriend convince her this isn’t a terrible decision.

“I’m assuming you need a ride somewhere?” the man speaks again.

“Yeah,” she nods. “Back to campus.”

“I’m headed that way, so I’m happy to drop you off. I’d hate for you to have to walk the whole seven miles at night.”

It’s the way he shoves his hands into his pockets—stiffly, awkwardly—that persuades her to take the chance. He seems more afraid of her than she is of him. At this time of night, he’s as close to a Christian family of four as she’s going to get.

“That’d be great, thanks,” she smiles.

Him

He has no choice. He wouldn’t be a good citizen if he didn’t stop to assist a young female hitchhiker. There are too many creeps in this world and he couldn’t live with himself if, after passing her by, she was murdered or raped or decapitated. He considers it a bonus (or maybe a reward) that she’s attractive.

It’d been a long day at work. His boss is watching him closely, looking for any reason to fire him. He’s trying to hold all the pieces of his life together, but they’re slipping from his grasp like rock milled to sand. The remains of what had been a life sit at his feet, but he doesn’t know how to construct an existence out of dust. The evidence of his being—employee of the year at the engineering firm, a girlfriend-slash-fiancée-to-be, a mortgage for a three-bedroom townhouse—means nothing when disassembled. He was demoted from multiple projects after one too many errors. His girlfriend-slash-fiancée-to-be is gone, as is the townhouse he can no longer afford or bear to live in alone.

But the hitchhiker offers him hope. If he can save rather than destroy just one thing, it’s this. He tries to remain calm as he waits for her to accept his offer. When she does, it takes everything in his power to control his excitement. He knows he can be too eager with women, his romanticism mistaken for desperation.

She returns his smile and slips into his car.

“Andy,” he offers his hand in introduction.

“Mara.”

Her

Her initial confidence deflates the moment the car doors close. She’s never been shy around men, but sitting here in the small cabin of the car with a man she doesn’t know feels uncomfortably intimate. She feels exposed.

She will never tell her dad about this. It’s a betrayal to everything he’s taught her, which she now sorts through in her mind. She assesses the man whose name she’s already forgotten. Average in every way, he is neither attractive nor unattractive. He reminds her of her dad’s friends, meaning the groomed hair and tucked in polo signal an office job, his lean frame a result of healthy eating and not weightlifting. He looks younger than her dad, but not young enough to be listening to the pop station whispering from his stereo. She doesn’t look for a wedding ring because she knows that doesn’t matter.

She pretends to look out the window as she checks the door. It’s unlocked and, though closed, the window is electric. She knows there’s a way into and out of the trunk from the inside, but she doesn’t know the trick. Her dad hasn’t shown her that, assuming he’d taught her enough to avoid a situation where that became a necessary skill. But he taught her the importance of being kind, of making yourself likable, so when the man makes a joke about the weather, she substitutes a cringe for a laugh.

“That’s pretty good,” she compliments him.

Him

His initial nervousness deflates the moment the car doors close. It’s been a few months since a woman sat beside him in his car, and Mara’s presence erases the ghost of his ex. He tries to focus on the road, but his eyes drift to her short skirt that hugs her thighs.

He knows she’s in college, so that makes her at least fifteen years younger than his thirty-eight, but perhaps she’s a graduate student in her mid-twenties. Either way, those in her generation think little of age. Prone to daydreaming futures out of reach, he imagines he could take care of her while she finishes school. There’s no ring or sign of jewelry from a boyfriend or husband, which he considers a win. For a split second, he can’t help but imagine her naked. He returns his attention to the road.

Two minutes pass and neither has spoken a word. Only five miles separate them from her destination and his priority is to make this last beyond the fifteen-minute drive, to extend a ride home to a first date. He tries to think of something to say that might impress her. All that comes out is a fact about the summer solstice.

But then she laughs. The song of her compliment—you’re pretty good—energizes him, gives him the confidence boost he needs to drive the conversation and to encourage her to stay longer.

Her

She wishes the conversation would end already. It wanders, stops, takes a breath, and rises again, painfully dragging itself along the road like an injured animal desperate to avoid becoming roadkill. The questions and answers ping back and forth as he mines for shared interests.

She is careful with her responses, delicately molding each answer to say what she cannot actually say: this is only a ride, this is only a moment, please don’t hurt me, please don’t love me. She doesn’t want him to misinterpret a connection between them that doesn’t exist, but she also feels it’s important they have some things in common. The survivors are the ones that let their captors get to know them. It’s important they see them as people, her dad once told her.

Her mind walks a tightrope, wavering between fear and confidence. She can’t articulate her discomfort. So far, he’s posed no danger. They’re driving on the right road in the right direction and already halfway to campus. His questions are personal, yet sanitary—where did you grow up, what do you do—boring, yet safe—what music do you listen to, what shows are watching. She wants to believe she’s made the right choice, that there are far worse things she could have done with far worse men. Yet, despite his milquetoast personality, when he looks at her and smiles, all she sees is a scope, his eyes the reticle marking his target.

The conversation stumbles. No, she doesn’t have any pets, no stories to tell about dogs or cats. He makes a joke about a dog he once had. It isn’t funny but she forces a monosyllabic “ha.” They are only a few miles away and soon this will be over.

Him

He hopes the conversation never ends. He enjoys talking to her, hearing the sweetness in her voice. She answers his questions and he nods in response, even though he’s not really listening. Her legs, her hair, her smile—they’re all too distracting. He envisions that she ran away from a violent ex-boyfriend, a man she hated but who wouldn’t let her go. She escaped. He rescued her. The vision is all so clear in his head he feels certain it must match her reality, too. He stopped to pick her up so they could save each other.

There’s a pause in the conversation. When she laughs at another one of his jokes, he sits an inch taller. There’s a mutual interest, a connection he knows they both must feel. They’re only a few minutes away from campus now. He’s running out of time. His ex weasels her way into his mind. You were always terrible at taking the lead, she whispers.

This time, he takes the lead. They turn left instead of right. He suggests coffee, insisting he buy her a cup after what seems to have been a long night for her. There’s a retro diner she’ll love.

Her

Her stomach flips. They’re no longer driving in the right direction. She curses herself for letting her anger at one man put her at risk with another, for allowing her confidence to get the best of her. She wonders if she did something wrong, said something wrong, to make him change his mind; she wonders if this was his plan the whole time and she missed all the signs.

He offers to buy her coffee. Although he frames it as a question, she knows she doesn’t have the choice to turn it down. He’s already driving them there. It’s the least I can do, he insists, which really means it’s the least she can do. He’s the one doing all the favors and she, nothing at all.

She agrees—sure, I guess so—and smiles for no other reason than that is what she thinks she’s supposed to do. She might not be in danger yet. They’re still on the main road, though the number of buildings and streetlights and cars dwindles the farther they drive. There’s a chance he really is taking her to a diner where she can insist on calling a friend to take her home. Stay calm, she tells herself. Her heart pounds as she quietly rifles through her bag. She digs out the Swiss Army knife her dad gifted her when she started college, hides it in her palm, and slides it under her right thigh. Just in case.

She senses she’s being watched. Ignoring his gaze, she pretends she’s found what she was hunting for. She pulls out a tube of Chapstick and applies it in the visor mirror.

Him

His stomach flips. He worries she’ll turn him down, but then she agrees—sure, I’d love to—and he knows this was meant to be. He can see it now. After hours of talking over coffee, she will insist he can’t drive home this late, that he should stay at her place. A reward for his kindness.

He senses her shifting in her seat, searching for something in her bag. He’s trying not to stare, but he can’t help watching her apply a pink lipstick, primping for their date. In just a few minutes, the story they’ll tell their friends, their parents, their wedding guests will begin. He needed to rebuild his life; she needed a ride. He rescued her from a terrible relationship; she discovered true love. She knew he was the one after hearing his first joke; he knew the moment she told him her name. They fell in love over a cup of coffee.

His wedding speech is interrupted as they pull into an empty parking lot, the building dark and empty. Closed. Out of business. Thank you for forty years of patronage.

Her

The empty parking lot sends her into a panic. She looks around for other cars, lights from nearby businesses, signs of life, but finds none. She wonders how it will happen. Will they find her body intact? It depends on his weapon. Will she be easy to identify, or will they have to extract DNA from her teeth?

He pulls to a stop in front of the diner. She has a few seconds to decide what to do next, how to fight for her life.

Him

The empty parking lot sends him into a panic. He parks the car and punches the steering wheel. Everyone always tells him how nice of a guy he is, that he just needs to find the right girl. A nice girl who can appreciate him. Not like his ex. Not like the other women who called him strange, obsessive, weak, emotional. Take control. So, he’s doing that. He won’t let this one get away.

Fuck it. They’ll go to Starbucks. The one inside the movie theater that’s open late. The plan will still work. This is his only chance.

He turns to her, smiles, and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.

“Okay, new plan,” he starts.

Her

This can’t be the ending. She refuses to accept that this ends with her dying. She watches him punch the steering wheel and wonders if he’s having a breakdown. Will he attack her here or subdue her and take her somewhere else? The main stretch of town is less than a mile away. She’s fast. She can make it.

He grips the steering wheel. His eyes are closed, his breath heavy. Now is her chance. Silently, delicately, she unlatches her seatbelt.

Him

This can’t be the ending. He refuses to accept that this ends with him alone. He starts to tell her about the Starbucks down the road when he sees her reach for the door handle.

He cannot let her go. He reaches for her arm, grabbing her left bicep and pulling her back to him.

“Wait, I promise,” he starts. He’s terrified he won’t get his date with her, won’t get her phone number, won’t kiss those pink lips.

Her

She pushes open the car door, but the moment her right foot hits the concrete, she feels a hand around her left arm. With the knife gripped in her right palm, she turns to look once more into his eyes. He looks scared, but she doesn’t have time to wonder why. She grips the handle of the knife, and her eyes scan his neck. He speaks, but she doesn’t wait to hear his promise.