“I don’t know,” he said, still looking down.
She let the song play, stopping it before Andrew Bird said the word died again. She put the phone into her pocket.
“I’m sure you’re very cold. There’s a coffee shop up the road. We could go get a coffee. I’d love to buy you a coffee. Would you let me buy you a coffee?” she asked.
He could be a murderer. He could be a rapist. He could be a pedophile on the run.
“You don’t want to tell me your name? I told you mine. I’m Tallie. Tallie Clark.”
“No,” he said. Soft. The world was loud and hard, but he was soft.
“Would you like something warm? To hold or drink? I can’t leave you here. I won’t do that,” Tallie said. She could reach out and touch him but was afraid. He could jump. He could fall. He could grab her and not let go, take her with him. She didn’t want to go.
“Play another song, please,” he said.
Tallie searched for “Jesus, Etc.” by Wilco—a song she’d always found comforting—and held her phone out for the man to take. They stood there listening to Jeff Tweedy’s flannel, languid voice together. She hugged herself for a moment, an attempt at warmth, before tucking her hands into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.
“Thank you,” he said, handing her the phone back once the song was over.
She looked at the highway—the flashing gloss of minivans, SUVs, pickup trucks, four-doors—no police cars, no fire trucks, no ambulances. She didn’t know what to do and told him that. Maybe it would make him feel better, knowing no one had all the answers. And if he was going to jump, he surely would’ve jumped already. Right? Right.
“You don’t have to do anything. It’s done,” he said.
“What’s done? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
It made her want to laugh, the humanity and honesty of him saying I don’t know. Tallie prayed to herself: Jesus, You see us. You know us. Let this man know. Let him find a reason to stay. Surround both of us. Let me be able to do this. Abide with us.
She held her hand out for him. Shaking, wet, cold. He looked at her, the river. The river, her. The backpack was at her feet. He was looking at the river, and he was looking at the river. He was looking at the river when he took her hand.
He smelled like the rain. There was a hood on his jacket that he never pulled up. Pointless if he was planning on dying soon. What’s a wet head to a dead person? He picked up his backpack and followed her to the car. Sat and closed the passenger door.
“The seat is wet. Sorry,” Tallie said, forgetting he was already wet. So was she. She closed her door, reached into the backseat. Grabbed the small towel in her gym bag and patted her face. She tried to hand it to him, but he refused. “So if you were looking for a sign not to take your life, the sign is me. Stopping. Taking you for a coffee instead.”
“I wasn’t looking for a sign.”
“Why not?”
Tallie turned off her hazard lights and waited until it was clear. Pulled into traffic. This was potentially a terrible idea, but it was happening. It was scary and thrilling, and her heart zapped like her body couldn’t tell the difference between panic and excitement.
“I didn’t want a sign,” he said.
“But you got one,” she said, smiling over at him. Maybe her first true smile of the day. She was busy with appointments in the morning, smiled perfunctorily, ate a salad and a can of tuna in her office alone. She’d had appointments all afternoon, too, and before leaving work had logged in to Joel’s social media account because Joel had never changed the password, and she clicked around on his new wife’s profile like she always did. Looked at old photos of her pregnant belly and photos from the baby shower she hadn’t seen before. She could make out Joel in the background of one of them, grilling. There was still a brand-new gas grill on Tallie’s deck that Joel had bought and never used.
Joel’s baby was almost two months old now, and in one of the new pictures with her, he had his hair pulled into a ponytail. A fucking ponytail. Tallie had closed her laptop and cried into her hands before leaving for the day. She’d run four miles at the gym across the river, disappointed in herself for not pushing for her usual six. And on her way home she saw Bridge—what she’d begun calling him in her mind since Bridge Guy wouldn’t tell her his name.
He shrugged; apparently he didn’t believe in signs, although clearly she had just saved his life. She’d never literally saved a life before; she felt warm all over thinking about it. She looked at him, considered his profile. He was probably handsome and could’ve been anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five.
“Do you like coffee?” she asked.
She used a lot of different techniques in her therapy sessions—holistic, behavior modification, Gestalt, cognitive—but also believed in the power of simplicity: listening, a warm drink. Her clients opened up more when they were holding a steamy mug. She sometimes felt guilty billing them when all she’d done was boil water. The coffee shop she was taking him to was her favorite, a stop she made almost every day. A safe place. He couldn’t murder her there; she knew the baristas.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said with enough breathtaking sadness to stop clocks.
“It matters. You matter. Your life matters. It does,” she said and waited for a response. When she didn’t get one, she continued, “Um…we’re almost there. The coffee shop is just up the road. You may know that. Are you from around here? I’m kind of winging this, but I’m trusting God right now.”
“What if there’s no God?” he asked, looking out his window, the raindrops slicking down in a beaded curtain.
Then I don’t know. That’s why I have to believe there is, she thought.
“Your name is Tallie?” he asked after several moments of silence.
“Tallie. Tallie Clark. Short for Tallulah. It means running water…jumping water. But everyone calls me Tallie except my brother and his family. They call me Lulah.” She could see the coffee shop ahead on the corner, the viridescent sign wrapped in neon, lit up and waiting for them.
“Huh,” he said, turning to her. Transfiguration—a suicide smile. Kind of creepy. Kind of nice. Ted Bundy had a creepy, nice smile, too. So did the Zodiac Killer, probably, and most of the murderers who ended up on Dateline. “It’s pretty. But my name isn’t Tallulah,” he said. The smile was gone.
She pulled into the coffee shop parking lot, thankful to be in a public place. She’d get him something warm, and she hoped to learn more about him in the process, figure out what kind of help he needed. Soon she’d be home in her pajamas with her cats, watching some trashy thing on TV, a soothing avocado sheet mask on her face, wine in her glass, feeling good about saving a life.
They parked and walked into the coffee shop together. He cowboy-walked slowly, and she matched his strides. When he held the door for her, she got a clear look at his face. Yep. He was Probably Handsome. Bridge was also probably five feet eleven, nearly the same size as Joel. Or maybe she was imagining it. Was she obsessed, making every man into Joel now? Bridge had shaggy hair, and she pictured Joel’s new ridiculous little ponytail swatting her in the face.