Light. Weak, predawn rays filter through the curtains. You’re not supposed to leave until eight because Chris wants to sleep. You can’t remember your dreams and are fairly certain that you never fell asleep so much as lost consciousness on your way to the pillow.

Chris is in the other bed. He uses so much of it, spreading himself as far across the surface as possible. You like small places, nesting places. You think you might be able to share a bed with Chris, because you wouldn’t mind if he took up the space as long as you could nest along his side.

You don’t wake him.

Outside, it looks like you should be able to see your breath. It’s gray and cloudy and a little windy. But the breeze is warm and you know it’ll be hot by midday.

You walk to the Dunkin Donuts across the parking lot. It feels like there is always a Dunkin Donuts within walking distance of a hotel, and you can remember sneaking out with Joey in the beginning because you knew him the best. Running across parking lots, ducking behind cars, even though no one cared enough to follow you back then.

You haven’t eaten a doughnut in a long time.

The woman behind the counter is old enough to have grandchildren that might know who you are. You’re sure she has no clue.

Her nametag reads “Mabel” and you can’t tell if it’s spelled wrong or not.

“What can I get for you?” she asks, and her accent is enough to make you grin.

She doesn’t smile back.

You get yourself a glazed doughnut and a jelly filled one for Chris, because you know he likes those.

“Nice hair cut,” she says, handing you your doughnuts.

You laugh.

You’re back in the car. Chris is driving and in another thirty minutes you’ll be in Mississippi. “M, ah, crooked letter…” Chris keeps saying over and over.

You’ve got your notebook out but instead of writing in it you’re staring out the window. You’re close enough that you think you should hear the ocean, but you can’t see it so you’re not sure that works.

“JC.”

You look at Chris and realize that he’s not saying your name to get your attention, just to talk.

“Chris.”

“JC.”

“Chris.”

“JC.”

And so on. When you establish a pattern of speech, you can turn your brain off, concentrate on something else, could probably compose an opera in your head while still maintaining the speech pattern.

It drives Chris crazy.

You remember a time when you were the responsible one, when you were the one caught up in righteous anger over early betrayals. When you were the one with the harsh words splashed across the tabloids. When you had something to say and could say it.

You can’t remember when that changed, but it might have been around the time that people began to think for you and you realized that you didn’t have to anymore.

Someone calls just before Biloxi. You don’t recognize the sound of your cell phone as it goes off. You haven’t heard it in over 24 hours. You can’t remember the last time you had that long a stretch of silence.

Chris has to tell you to answer your phone. You hold the phone to your ear and wonder if you’ll hear the ocean.

Its just Joey.

“It’s just been a week,” he says and you know he’s thinking about Lance and you know he’s well on his way to admitting to himself, to Lance.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask him about Brianna,” Chris says and you wave him silent.

“How’s being a family man going?”

“Its just… it hurts, C.”

You wonder why you’re supposed to be the expert on other people’s feelings. You feel things, sure, but you don’t know how others should feel things. They seem to assume that since you’ve become the artistic one that you’re more in tune with your soul. Sometimes it just feels like you’re more out of tune with theirs.

“I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s okay. How goes the trip of discovery?”

“Discovery?”

“Yeah, like the places you’ve never been.”

Oh. “Haven’t seen anything new yet.”

“Hey, she’s screaming. Gotta go.”

You close your eyes after you hang up with Joey. You think Chris must be driving under trees because the light on your eyelids blinks in and out. You try to make pictures with the patterns.

Chris turns on one of your cds. He forgot to bring his so he’s stuck with your “new agey” stuff. Right now he’s got the Indigo Girls on. You smile when the opening chords for “Least Complicated” start up. Your smile widens when he starts singing along. You join in on the chorus.

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