Eleven Hours by Paullina Simons Page A

guess and I’m going to guess it right.”
    â€œLyle,” Didi said, trying to keep her voice on an even keel, and failing. He was unraveling right in front of her, and it was frightening to watch. “Trust me. If you’ve never heard of Othello, you will never have heard of my name.”
    â€œTry me,” he said doggedly. “Go on, give me a clue. Tell me what it rhymes with.”
    Didi was crying openly now, tears mixing in with the sweat, running into her cheeks and into her mouth. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. What do you want with me? Call my husband, please, ask him for whatever you want. Let’s just have this over with. Why do you have to do this?”
    He looked at her with a hurt expression on his face. “Do what? What are you talking about? I thought we were just having a conversation.”
    She nodded, taking a deep breath and pulling herself together. “Yes, yes, of course we are. Do you play these games with your wife?”
    â€œI thought I told you to leave my wife out of this!” he snapped. “But yes,” he added. “We do.”
    â€œLyle,” Didi said, “please let me go. Please. Stop the car, let me out. I won’t tell anyone about you.”
    â€œYou promise?” he said sarcastically. “You swear?”
    â€œI swear.”
    â€œYou swear on your unborn child?”
    â€œI swear on my unborn child,” Didi repeated.
    â€œBullshit!” he yelled. “Bullfuckingshit! As soon as you get out of my car, you’ll be bleating like a lamb all over Texas. No, I can’t let you go,” he said, quieter. “Besides, I’m not done with you. You know that. Now, continue. Give me a clue.”
    â€œSo call my husband and tell him what you want. Why have we been driving for more than two hours and you haven’t called anyone?”
    â€œGive me a clue, I said.”
    She wiped her face and licked her hand. Yes, salt, but salted water. “My name rhymes,” Didi said slowly, trying to calm down, “with ‘Arizona.’”
    â€œArizona, Arizona,” he said. “I can’t think. No, nothing is coming. Another one.”
    â€œIt rhymes,” she said, “with ‘my bologna.’”
    â€œHmm. Arizona, my bologna … No nothing. Another one.”
    â€œIt rhymes with ‘Barcelona.’”
    â€œBarcelona? What is that?”
    Oh, God.
    â€œI’ll tell you right now,” he said, threateningly, “if you don’t make me guess, it’ll be so much the worse for you. And for this one I swear on my child. Now another one. Arizona, my bologna, Barcelona. What kind of stupid clues are those? Those are just dumb clues. No one would be able to guess.”
    â€œYou’re right. It’s a very hard name to guess,” said Didi. “Want to try to guess my nickname instead?”
    â€œDoes anyone call you by the nickname?”
    â€œSure, lots of people.”
    â€œYour husband?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOkay, give me the nickname.”
    â€œIt starts with D, and it rhymes with ‘pretty.’ It’s got only two syllables in it and they’re both the same. It’s only got four letters.”
    He was muttering to himself. “Pretty, ditty, deedee, didi—Didi?” he said with hope and surprise.
    â€œYes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, that’s right. See? That’s right. Didi.” And she breathed again, the tension leaving her body for a moment.
    Lyle quickly stopped smiling. “So why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
    â€œBecause it’s my nickname. It’s not my name on the birth certificate or my license. Don’t you have a nickname?” she asked, grimacing, hoping it looked like a smile to him.
    Lyle got a faraway look on his face as he watched the road. “My wife used to call me Lovey. Because I liked Lyle Lovett so much and because she loved me.