Taut: The Ford Book
Page 82

The elevator doors open and we walk out to the valet area. The Bronco has been washed. Actually, I’d call it detailed because it smells like Guy on a Hot Date and the tires are gleaming in the sun from an Armor All application.
Ashleigh buckles Kate in the back and then jumps up front with me. “If we’re lucky, she’ll sleep the whole way.”
“I could use some luck, so here’s hoping.”
She lets out a long breath and settles into her seat. I pull out and make our way to the 15 freeway that will take us all the way to the 10 in LA. It’s warm out but not hot. The Bronco likes the extreme heat just about as much as it enjoys the extreme cold. So luckily, Vegas in January is mostly mild. As soon as we clear the city limits and are heading west, Ashleigh kicks her feet up, lowers her seat, and closes her eyes.
“You just woke up, how can you be tired already?”
“Ford,” she says as she lowers the sunglasses the hotel gave us yesterday. “I’m a new mom. With anyone but you, I’d choose sleep over sex any day of the week, that’s how f**king fantastic it feels to close my eyes and forget about life.” I can see her out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t want her to see my smile, so I keep focused on the road. “And I do not want to hear about my swearing today. Yesterday you called the shots so today it’s my turn.”
“Should we play a game to see who calls the shots?”
She slides her glasses back into position and sighs. “Me. I call the shots.”
“You cheat, Miss Li. You only play until you win, then you back out.”
“I’m too tired to entertain you today, Ford. I think you should entertain me.”
I get a wicked grin.
“With my clothes on,” she amends.
“I’m a master of entertaining. However, you still owe me something.”
She snorts. “Like what?”
“My favor. You promised to tell me about school.”
“Oh,” she says with more relief than might be necessary. “Yeah, whatever. What do you want to know?”
“What kind of program, to start.” She laughs, then covers her mouth and when I look over she’s blushing. “What?” I ask, laughing with her. “You’re getting a master’s degree in  p**n  or something? Why are you blushing?”
“No, it’s just kinda funny.”
I wait for it.
“I’m a psychologist. Well, I will be if I ever finish grad school and pass my licensing exam.”
Psychologist. I should not be surprised—she was reading my mind back in Vail just like I was reading hers. “Will you? Finish the program?”
She slides her sunglasses down her nose again. “No. I never wanted to be a stupid psychologist. But I had to pick something, and that was as good a major as any and it was all paid for out of my trust. It was a way to get money. A way to survive and become educated at the same time. Plus, it pacified my father when I left home.”
“He needed pacifying. Why?”
She’s silent for this one. For a long time, like more than a minute. When she finally speaks her speech has an edge to it. “You know that story about the boy who drew cats? Well, that’s me. I draw cats. But no one wanted to let me draw cats and I never had the good fortune of having my cat drawings come to life to save a shitload of people to prove I’m worthwhile, so I had to do something else.”
“So what do you really do? When you draw cats?”
“It’s stupid.” She turns her head to the window and watches the desert for a little while. I let her, because I’m not starting an argument on this ride. I’m deflecting. I’m in denial. I’m postponing. I’m stalling.
“You’re super smart, Ford. I mean—Eagle Scout? Those equations in your bedroom? The sign language, the Japanese, and probably a lot more shit I have no clue about. I’m not a physics expert or anything, but I’ve taken my share of science classes and those equations were way up there on the genius level. So why did you become a film producer?”
“I wanted to draw cats, Ashleigh. And my dad didn’t give a f**k what I did in school. He told me to choose something fun. I got offers from every top ten school in the country and quite a few big ones overseas as well. And I went to a public university in my hometown and studied how other people who wanted to draw cats make shit up and put it on film. Because it looked fun.”
She settles back into her seat and sighs.
“I get it. I get you, Ashleigh. And you get me. I understand what it means to be misunderstood. So just tell me, what kind of cats do you draw?”
“Poetry,” she whispers so softly I can barely hear her over the engine and the wind from the open window.
“Poetry. Do you have some with you that I can read?”
“No, I left my journal at the hotel because I’m tired of thinking about it. If I read that stuff one more time I might really go insane.” She pauses, but it’s almost an afterthought. Like she was going to say something but changed her mind.
I wait her out.
She presses the button for both our windows and rolls them up to quiet things down. “I can tell you one from memory, if you want. They’re not complicated, Ford.”
She says this like she feels the need to explain herself, and that saddens me. She should not have to explain why she wants to draw cats.
“I write them simple on purpose. Because my life….” She trails off for a few seconds, then sighs and gives it another shot. “My life is so, so f**ked up. It’s twisted and complicated, and filled with shit.” She swallows hard. “Bad shit. But my poems are the opposite of that. When my life is unraveling, and everything about it is slack, my poems are taut. My poems take the fray and wind it back together.”