Where the Road Leads Us Read online

  “You okay?” he asks again softly. I nod.

  “Yes, sorry.” I wave to everyone so they can go back to whatever it was they were doing before I hacked up a lung. “I’m okay. Sorry.”

  My chest hurts, although not as badly as before. I’m pushing myself too hard, and my body is starting to react. I realize I’m long overdue for taking my pill. I reach in my purse, digging for the bottle. I run my fingers over the surface of every object inside but don’t feel the round plastic cylinder.

  “You don’t have to apologize to anyone. Do you need more water?”

  “No, I’m okay for now, thanks,” I tell him as I sit down to search more thoroughly. Where the hell is that pill bottle? I was sure I threw it in here. I remember seeing it sitting on the edge of my desk, but then Dylan came home, and I’d gone out to see him before I’d had a chance to take it and finish packing. I must have left it there.

  I start to get scared. I know what I’m feeling is all tied to my health, so it’s not going to get better. More likely it will get worse. Owen’s dying is a wake-up call that this isn’t going to go away. I have no choice but to deal with this. I’m surprised by the realization that for the first time in a long time, I want to be here.

  I don’t want to alarm Jack. I know he’s got a lot on the line right now, and the last thing he should be thinking about is me. As much as I love being here, the signs are all pointing toward home.

  A rumbly vibration emanates from Jack’s seat. His phone seems to have lodged itself in the crevice between the arm and seat cushion of the chair. He fishes it out and flips it over.

  He looks at me. “It’s a text from Malcolm.”

  “What did he say?”

  He reads it, and his face lights up. “My brother is down to meet me tonight at seven thirty, after work.”

  “That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks. Looks like an address somewhere in Berkeley. That’s across the bay, and with rush hour and everything, I guess it makes sense to head in that direction soon and wait it out somewhere in that vicinity instead. But your bus is at eight. That would put you much farther away. You’d get there and be close to having to turn right around again.” He frowns.

  “True.” I’m suddenly freezing and completely depleted. I involuntarily shiver.

  “Are you cold?” he asks.

  “Mmmm. I’ll be fine once we get outside. It’s like an icebox in here.” I’m still wearing his sweatshirt jacket, and I zip it all the way up and tuck my hands under my arms.

  “It really isn’t.”

  The sheer exhaustion in his eyes matches my own. Seven thirty is still a good four hours away. The idea of being on the go for that long in my current state is a little daunting.

  My words jumble with his as we both start talking at the same time. He laughs.

  “I’m sorry. Go ahead,” he says, and I shake my head.

  “No, you.”

  “I was going to say that you shouldn’t feel like you have to stay. You’re obviously not feeling well. You should probably take it easy and rest. Honestly, it would be completely selfish and irresponsible of me to recommend differently.”

  I nod, relieved. “And I was about to say that this is a huge moment for you. I wouldn’t want to compromise the focus in any way because you’re worrying about how I’m doing or worrying about me getting back or whatever. Either way—we say goodbye now or in a few hours, right?”

  “Right. It makes sense. We’re just being logical about this.”

  “Absolutely.” It seems to be what he wants. Unless he’s saying this because he thinks it’s what I want. I smile reassuringly. “I can get a cab back to the bus station and find a bench and read and hang out until my bus leaves. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they will have Raisinets in the vending machine.”

  He sits down in his chair and leans toward me, resting his arms on his knees. He bites his lip. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay? I feel like a jerk for not offering to travel back with you to LA.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be fine. That was never the plan,” I tell him.

  “There was no plan. I can at least drop you off at the bus station and go on from there.”

  “That would be great.”

  “So, okay, good—that’s what we’ll do then.”

  “Yeah.”

  I hadn’t even noticed music had been playing in the background until the song changes and suddenly “Dancing Queen” comes on. Jack and I lock eyes and smile, both remembering the sing-along hours ago.

  “I guess this is kind of our song,” he says. I know he’s kidding, but it always will be the soundtrack that plays under the memory of this time together in my mind.

  It’s hard to know what to say after that. Despite briefly sharing the same path, at the end of the day we are indeed on separate journeys. Until now, I thought mine was about seeing Owen, but I’m realizing it was actually about stepping back and seeing myself. Talking with Jack has helped me understand that behind this mountain will always be another mountain, because that’s just how life is. The key is not letting them stand in my way.

  The temperature is starting to drop outside. Jack stops at a souvenir shop next door and buys me a black I Heart SF sweatshirt to wear so he can take his sweatshirt back. They only have bigger sizes, so it swims on me, but at least it’s warm and cozy. As he puts his sweatshirt back on, I know that when I think of him, I’m going to picture him exactly like this, with the afternoon sun hitting his face and the city as his backdrop.

  On the cab ride back to the bus station, I angle myself toward him in the seat and say, “There’s something I want to tell you before I go.”

  “Okay.” He looks nervous. He’s probably wondering what I could tell him at this point that could possibly top cancer.

  “I’ve felt more alive in these less-than-twenty-four hours than I have in a long time. For the first time in a long time, I’m excited to think about the possibility of the future and what it could bring, and I have you to thank for that. I think our paths were meant to cross.”

  He beams. “I feel exactly the same way. Maybe this sounds bizarre, but when I’m with you, it’s as if I’m coexisting in some alternate reality, and in this one I actually feel good. Like the version of me I want to be. And if not for meeting up with you last night, I honestly don’t know what I might have done if I’d gone home, all up in my head on the eve of yet another unwanted major life shift. Meeting you forced me to unknowingly take charge of my destiny.”

  I feel myself blush. It’s probably the most amazing thing anyone has ever said to me. It’s good that I’m leaving, because I am falling for him, and that can’t happen right now. It’s the absolute worst timing for both of us. It’s not fair.

  He looks deep into my eyes. “Thank you for the most perfect day between I could ever imagine.”

  I nod. “That was a good time.”

  He blushes and asks with a nervous smile, “So you sure you want to leave it like that? No contact, no communication, just show up six months from now and see if the other one does too?”

  “The universe brought us together once—if it intends us to meet again, we will. No expectations. It’ll be a surprise. Like a present our future selves get to unwrap.”

  Something to hold on to, something to hope for.

  We arrive at the bus station for the third time today. The driver waits while Jack gets out of the car to say goodbye.

  “So, this time this really is it,” I say and then wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for a hug. “It’s weird to say goodbye.”

  “It is.” We stand there like that, me resting my head on his shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you in six months.”

  As I pull away, I kiss him softly on the cheek. His skin is cold against the warmth of my lips. If he turned his head ever so slightly, our mouths
would touch, and so I pull away quickly to make sure he doesn’t, even though a part of me wants him to. It would only make this harder than it is already.

  “Bye, Jack.” I take a snapshot of him in my mind and grin as I raise the handle on my Hello Kitty suitcase and walk toward the terminal. I refuse to look back.

  Chapter 20

  Jack

  Saturday, June 5, 4:11 p.m.

  Now I get what Natasha meant earlier when she said she cares about me enough to let me go. Even though it’s the furthest thing from what I want, I want to give Hallie that.

  How is it possible to spend less than twenty-four hours with her and feel like she knows me better than anyone who’s been in my life the whole time?

  I force myself not to look back as the car pulls away and heads toward the Bay Bridge and Berkeley. Unlike Oscar, this driver seems to prefer music at a low volume to conversation, which is fine with me. It gives me time to wrap my head around what’s about to happen.

  I check my phone and see that my mother has called twice. My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Ajay: Seriously dude, you ok?

  I can’t help but smile as I type: Never been better. Before I hit send, I add: Hey, do you remember a girl named Hallie Baskin?

  He shoots right back: Mayyyybe? Was she hot?

  I laugh. She’s definitely cute.

  Name is familiar. Wait—didn’t she get cancer and drop out or something?

  She’s so much more than how he’s summed her up, and I know she’d hate that he remembered her by her illness. I text back: Too much to get into but took slight detour/road-tripped with her to SF/on my way to meet Alex.

  He responds: WTAF? Holy shiiiiiit!

  I watch the three bubbles appear that tell me he is writing more, but it takes forever, so I’m expecting a paragraph. I write back: Exactly right as his words pop up on the screen. That’s awesome! Glad ur not dead. I would feel guilty about beating your high score earlier. #backtogloating to which I reply #biteme followed by Details later and click off my phone. It’s too much to get into now.

  I’m sure he’s already texting Natasha the update. Not because he’s a jerk; just the opposite. Because he’s a genuinely good guy, and he wouldn’t want her to worry. I don’t want her to either, but I also don’t want to text her, so I’m grateful. He’s gonna flip when I tell him the whole story.

  Writing bite me and thinking about Natasha reminds me of the bottle opener she gifted me sitting in my backpack. I take it out and look at it, then gently stick it into the seat back in front of me for the next rider to discover.

  As I’m zipping up my bag, a glint of metal on the seat catches my eye. It’s Hallie’s bracelet—the one with the Latin inscription. It must have fallen off, and we’re too far away to turn around and give it back to her. She’ll be so upset when she discovers it’s missing. I carefully attach it on to my wrist for safekeeping. Having something of hers against my skin makes me even more aware of her absence.

  She too is now part of the past, and I have to keep moving forward. Toward what is the question. But it’s okay to not have that all figured out in a day. Or even a month. It seems like the sort of thing that you keep figuring out all your life, so taking a little extra time on the front end doesn’t seem so irresponsible after all.

  I hole up at a coffee shop a block away from the address Malcolm gave me. They happen to have an old-school, tabletop Tetris, and I easily set the high score in the couple of hours I’m there killing time. By the time I head over to see Alex, the sky is hued orange and violet and pink, and the evening fog has begun to roll in from the west.

  I’m excited to see my brother, but I’ve also spent the last year blaming him in part for having a hand in Dad no longer being here. If not for what he’d done—getting into trouble all the time, lying and stealing, ultimately overdosing and nearly costing Dad his career—everything might have been different. Dad might not have been so stressed out. He might have paid more attention to his health, noticed warning signs.

  I carry my own guilt about his passing too. On the final morning of his life, Dad and I had a heated exchange on his way out the door to go jogging about my wanting to apply to a few colleges as a creative writing major. It was not well received, and I’d sent his blood pressure through the roof. They call the kind of heart attack he had a widowmaker because the survival odds are so slim.

  It’s taken me until now to start to realize that neither of us is to blame for Dad’s passing. Sometimes bad stuff just happens.

  I’m snapped back into the present as a dragonfly skitters past me, brushing against my cheek before settling on a nearby bush. On every level, it feels like my dad trying to get my attention, letting me know he knows I’m here and wants me to stop dwelling on the past or worrying about the future and be fully present in this moment.

  I stop in front of a two-story brick building adjacent to a neighborhood park. It’s weird to know that my brother is somewhere inside.

  There are some kids my age shooting hoops on a basketball court outside. Through the front window of the building, I can make out a pool table with several more teens around it. Looks like some sort of community center.

  I am moments away from actually standing in front of Alex. Where do we begin? Suddenly all the things I want to say jumble up like a strand of Christmas lights in my brain. My stomach twists with anticipation, and my palms start to sweat.

  I’m a little early, but I put my hand on the steel push bar on the door and enter the space. Barely anyone acknowledges my arrival except the twentysomething girl with Princess Leia–esque side buns doing her nails at the reception desk. She grins and dunks the brush in the jar of neon hot-pink polish.

  “Hey, what’s up?” she asks.

  “I’m looking for Alex Freeman,” I tell her.

  She grabs the phone receiver carefully so as not to smudge her nails, cradling it between her chin and shoulder.

  “Hey, is Alex back there?” There’s a pause. “Oh, okay cool,” she says. I can hear a muffled response as she hangs up. “He’ll be right out. He’s finishing up.”

  “What is this place?” I ask her.

  “It’s the Teen Outreach Center.”

  “What do you guys do here?” I ask. Nothing wrong with gathering a little intel.

  “We provide programs for at-risk youth, from tutoring to community service projects, life-skill building, career training, and free counseling. Many of these kids are homeless or come from difficult backgrounds. For a lot of these kids, it’s a lifeline.”

  I’m trying to figure out how my brother fits in here. Alex seems a little old for this place. The kids seem to range from about thirteen to seventeen. A peal of laughter emanates from behind the closed doors of a classroom or meeting space. I can make out a handful of teens seated in a circle through the door window. A moment later they all rise and the door opens, spilling their cacophony of voices into the common area. I scan their faces as they emerge, but none of them are Alex. The door closes behind them with a click as they scatter in different directions.

  And then it opens again, and there he is. My breath catches in my throat. Jesus—I’d forgotten how much he looks like Dad.

  There is no mistaking whether we’re related. Our builds are similar—tall and lean—and we both have Dad’s grayish-blue eyes. He looks different since I saw him last. His medium-brown hair is shorter now and brushed back off his face, not at all how he used to wear it. He looks older. My parents always used to be after him to cut it and clean up his appearance. Seeing him like this would make Dad happy.

  We are both sporting slight scruff on our chins, which in my case is not by choice but circumstance, although I don’t entirely hate it. Alex is wearing a gray, half-zip, mock turtleneck sweater and jeans, which are way more preppy than he ever dressed. He looks like he’s making an effort.

  Alex looks up and catches si
ght of me openly staring at him, and his face lights up with a smile. Dad’s smile.

  “Holy shit,” he says as he crosses the room to me and pulls me into an awkward hug. “Wow, you grew up, little brother. Or should I say not-so-little brother. When did you get so tall?”

  “Hey,” I say as casually as if I’d seen him last Thursday, though actually it’s been somewhere in the ballpark of ninety-six Thursdays.

  He smells different too. I didn’t hug him a lot then, but he was like Pig Pen from Peanuts, who always has a dust cloud around him. Except Alex’s was more like cigarettes, Axe deodorant, and pot.

  “Wow, it’s really good to see you,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Almost two years. And yeah…the magic of puberty.”

  Alex laughs. “It’s crazy. Let me get my stuff together, and then we can get out of here and go somewhere to catch up. Hang tight here for a sec. You thirsty? Can I get you anything to drink first? Water? Tea? Coffee?”

  “I’m good, actually. I’ve had about forty-six cups of coffee today.”

  “Aaaah, pot head.” He says with a grin as he looks me up and down.

  I laugh. “What?”

  “Pot head, as in you drink a pot of coffee a day. I can relate. Fellow card-carrying member.” He starts walking away. “Be right back.”

  “Sure.” I dig my hands in my pocket and look around aimlessly. The girl behind the counter smacks her gum.

  “You guys look a lot alike,” she says and blows a bubble. “I like Alex. He’s a good guy.”

  I wouldn’t know exactly. The last time I saw Alex, he wasn’t at all what I would describe as a good guy. In fact, he was kind of a nightmare, but still I say, “Yeah.”

  He returns and says goodbye to the girl behind the desk, and I follow him out the front door into the early twilight. I’m positive the piece-of-shit green beater in the second row is going to be his before he even maneuvers toward it in the parking lot. The polar opposite of my BMW. He never cared about stuff like that.

  “Do you mind if we stop and grab some food?” he asks. “I’m starving. I didn’t get a chance to eat between work and here. Then we can have a chance to catch up.”