Later, he thought. Deep need
pulled him towards Francesca's house. He walked back up the hill. When
he got to her house, the lights were out. He stood there, half out of
his mind. He walked into the dark carport and stopped by a set of
wooden steps that led to a side door. There was a doormat on the
concrete floor by the steps. Oliver looked at the door, kneeled, curled
on the mat, and passed out in his new red shirt.
He woke up just before dawn. The house was quiet. My God, he thought,
what am I doing? He got stiffly to his feet and left as quietly as he
could. He was still drunk, but he was able to drive out of the city and
find a truck stop where he slept in the Jeep for three more hours.
He awoke with a bad hangover and ate breakfast shakily. Shaving wasn't
worth it. He drove aimlessly south, back the way he had come. When he
reached Portland, he turned toward the coast and drove with more
purpose. The Devil's Churn wasn't that far from Portland.
24.
The hurt that Oliver had felt since Tucson was much worse. Being true
had taken him far from everyone, had torn his connections to everything
outside himself. He had always been a bit remote, distant from others,
an observer; now he was completely alone.
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