Where the Road Leads Us Read online

  Ajay’s eyes light up with excitement. “I’ve heard Carly’s house is off the hook. All the rooms have themes, and there are hidden passageways.”

  “I once heard her dad has an actual Batmobile,” Natasha says as I turn my head and glance toward the back of the restaurant.

  There’s a girl sitting by herself in the far booth near the bathrooms. Her nose is buried in a well-worn copy of Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy, which happens to be my absolute favorite book of all time. I’ve seriously read it a dozen times. It’s the book that made me want to be a writer. The idea of making shit up and getting paid for it always seemed like the ultimate dream job to me, but my parents were not behind creative writing as a college major, let alone a career. They’re all about practicality, job security, and the ability to pay rent.

  The girl’s hair is short and purple and spiky, which makes her ice-blue eyes stand out even from this distance, and she’s wearing a chunky, light-gray sweater despite it being nearly eighty degrees outside. Her ears have multiple piercings from lobe to helix. Her face is familiar, in the same way that a person you’ve seen a million times but don’t actually know can look familiar. As if sensing my gaze, she looks up and locks eyes with me. I quickly turn away.

  “We’re going together, right?” Ajay asks. “I can pick everyone up.”

  I don’t want to be tied to anyone else’s schedule. I make up some excuse about needing to finish packing and having to be up early and how I’ll meet them there. I purposely don’t look at Natasha for fear I might see she’s visibly relieved.

  After draining two cups of coffee in record time, Ajay excuses himself to use the bathroom, and Natasha and I are finally alone. Something seems off about her, more so than usual.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She finally looks at me. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “I don’t know. You’re acting kind of weird.”

  “Why? Because I don’t want to stay home and watch movies instead of go to a party?”

  “No.” I sigh. “Never mind. It’s fine.”

  “Well, obviously it’s not fine, or you wouldn’t be saying that,” she huffs.

  I angle myself toward her slightly. “I feel like I’m missing something here. Did I do something?”

  “I don’t want to get into this right now.”

  “Into what? So obviously there is something.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Can we talk about this later please?”

  “Why can’t we talk about it now?” I ask.

  “Because.”

  “Because why?” She doesn’t answer me and closes her eyes. “What is going on, Natasha?”

  “Please stop.”

  I know I’m poking the bear at this point, but I can’t help it. “No. I want to know what’s up.”

  She sighs deeply and opens her eyes, then looks directly into mine. “I want to break up, Jack.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking, Jack, and—I think we should go back to being just friends.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Things haven’t felt the same between us for a while now. The reality is she probably would have done it a lot sooner, but she probably felt like she couldn’t because I’ve been struggling with my dad’s death since he passed away a little over a year ago. At least she cared enough to recognize the poor timing, but her obvious distance has in some ways been worse. I know my grief has been difficult for her to navigate. It never dawned on me that she might actually opt to let go.

  “Wow,” is all I can muster. I feel slightly shell-shocked.

  She shakes her head, defensive. “See—this is why I didn’t want to say anything. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  “Oh, so you’ve been planning this for a while then?”

  Ajay is on his way back to the table from the bathroom. “I don’t want to get into this now with Ajay here. We can talk later at school while we’re setting up.”

  “Yeah, no sense in ruining breakfast, right?”

  She ignores my obvious sarcasm and fakes a smile as Ajay returns to the table. Our server follows him with the pancakes, complete with a lit, rainbow-swirl candle shoved in the strawberry nose. Ajay sings “Happy Birthday” off-key and loud enough to attract the attention of some of the other patrons who smile and join in.

  The collective noise becomes a muffled roar, as if I’m underwater. I pinch the fleshy part of my left palm below my thumb—something my therapist taught me to help ground myself when my anxiety builds—and try to act normal, whatever that is anymore.

  I pretend to make a wish and blow, so as not to keep everyone waiting. But the truth is, I feel like it deserves some proper thought this year. I lick the whipped cream off the base of the candle and shove it in my pocket for later.

  “Oh! I almost forgot!” Natasha roots in her purse and pulls out a small, red box tied with a silver bow. She puts it on the table in front of me.

  “You didn’t need to get me anything.” She just broke up with me, but now she’s giving me a birthday present?

  “I got it a long time ago, actually. I couldn’t return it.” Her face is expressionless, her mouth a straight line. What a heartfelt gesture. I slide off the bow and open the lid of the box. Inside is a winking red-chili-pepper bottle cap opener that reads BITE ME. Natasha says, “It reminded me of my favorite dinner and movie night. And it’s also a practical kitchen utensil.”

  Natasha, Ajay, and I did this thing where we’d watch a movie and eat food that reflected the cuisine of the city where the film took place. New Mexico Night was a standout, mostly because Ajay had some mock trial practice and couldn’t be there. Natasha and I ordered in these amazing chicken burritos and marathoned all three High School Musical movies, which are set in Albuquerque, New Mexico, even though they were actually shot in Utah. It’s also the night we first hooked up. The fact that her gift happens to reference that particular moment is ironic in light of recent events.

  “In keeping with the practical theme,” Ajay says as he slides an envelope across the table toward me and grins.

  “What’s this?” I am genuinely curious, because Ajay has never given me an actual present in our eight years of friendship.

  “Best I could do with short notice,” he says.

  I tear off the end and give it a shake, dropping the contents into my palm—a single condom. But this one is special—its white packaging has a Pokémon ball on it and lettering that reads “Don’t Catch ’Em All.” I feel my cheeks flush red. It’s not at all awkward or embarrassing to be sitting next to my suddenly ex-girlfriend holding a condom that I definitely won’t be using with her. “And we wonder why Ajay is terminally single.”

  Ajay swigs the last of his coffee in one gulp and says, “Don’t laugh. A condom is like a Swiss Army knife; it has multiple uses that don’t involve sex. You can use it as a fishing lure, an ice pack, a jar opener, a water container. You can cut it up to make rubber bands, hair ties, make things waterproof, and it protects against STDs. It’s my way of saying: may you be ready for anything life might throw your way.”

  I can’t imagine what more life could throw my way at this point, but I thank him for it nonetheless. As I’m tucking it inside my wallet, Purple Hair Girl walks by our table. She totally sees me do it, and an amused smile flickers on her face as she passes. Even though I will never see her again, it bothers me that she’s going to walk around thinking I’m one of those douchey guys who carries a condom around in his wallet desperately hoping for action.

  Chapter 2

  Hallie

  Friday, June 4, 7:37 a.m.

  My break is over. I dog-ear the page in my book and take one last sip of my coffee before heading back toward the kitchen. I’m über-self-conscious as I pass the front booth with the three teenagers seated in it. I recognize them from when I used to go to Madison Hig
h—two clean-cut guys and a girl with fiery red hair and a pinched expression, like someone who’s lactose intolerant and discovered halfway through her soy pumpkin spice latte that it was mistakenly made with whole milk. Smart kids from the right zip code with ironclad futures who will probably never have to sacrifice anything or suffer a day in their entitled lives. I wonder if they even appreciate how lucky they’ve got it.

  I’m pretty sure the guy on the end was in my creative writing class, although he looks taller, less pubescent, which makes sense since it’s been a couple of years. What was his name? Jack? Jake? Definitely a monosyllabic name with a J. He seemed sort of interesting. Quiet. Cute. Nerdy in a cool way. His stories were funny. We weren’t friends or anything; I doubt he’d even remember me. I look different now too.

  I steal a glance as I pass their table and can’t suppress a smile. Monosyllabic J is holding a condom package in his hand. He looks right at me and grins sheepishly, not so much with recognition as with embarrassment.

  As soon as I set foot in the kitchen, Mom beelines toward me. She wipes whipped cream from her fingers on the front of her rust-colored apron. “Hallie, could you please prep the sandwich toppings for lunch and brew a fresh pot of decaf?”

  She looks exhausted. The circles under her eyes are deep and purple. Her roots are white and in need of a touch-up, but she hasn’t had time because she’s been at the restaurant almost nonstop, especially since Dad had to take on a side job in the evenings to help keep things afloat. I’ve had to fill in more often.

  In the kitchen, I dump the old coffee filter and add a new one, spooning the grounds from the industrial-size can of instant decaf into it. Through the pass window, I see Mom smiling at a guest as she takes his order, blissfully unaware of everything I’m dealing with. A wave of guilt washes over me. When she asked how things had gone at my appointment yesterday, I’d said fine. She didn’t press for details because it was a routine follow-up. I’ve never been dishonest with her. I’ve never had a reason to be, but I reason with myself that I’m gifting us both another seventy-two hours of status quo before it’s dismantled.

  After the call came late yesterday afternoon, I went straight to my room, jammed my earbuds in, and cranked up my music. I logged on to the board to see if Owen was hanging out in the chat room. He always knows what to say to keep me from sinking too deep into the shadows. But then I saw his post, and it felt wrong to tell him. He has enough to think about right now without needing to hear my bullshit.

  Owen Wilder has talked me off countless ledges. We’ve never met in real life, but our friendship is genuine. In some ways, it’s more genuine. Friendships in real life tend to be way more complicated. But this one’s complicated too because Owen is dying.

  This weekend, specifically.

  I’ve never actually known someone who died, unless you count my goldfish, Max. I won him at a carnival, and he lived for three years. He was like the Energizer Bunny of goldfish, and then one day, without warning, he leapt from his bowl and landed on the counter, where I found him the next morning—bone-dry, mouth wide open. Owen dying is way more intense, obviously, but at least he’s had time to prepare—as much as anyone can for such a thing.

  I pull out a head of romaine lettuce, a half dozen tomatoes, an onion, and a jar of pickles and lay them on the counter beside the cutting board. As I rinse and pat the lettuce and tomatoes dry, I think how despite his diagnosis, deep down, I believed Owen would be okay. And as long as he was okay, I would be okay too.

  He’s one of those people who are larger than life—so positive, able to find the good in anything and anyone to the point of being annoying. He likes to make people laugh, always trying to boost morale. He knows how his story ends, and yet he still talks about wanting to become a Broadway star and live in a brownstone adjacent to Central Park with his future husband and half a dozen French bulldog rescues.

  Owen never stopped allowing himself to dream and make long-range plans, and that’s something I still can’t bring myself to do. And with good reason.

  Last night Owen posted in the Updates thread that his health has taken a downturn, and he’s decided it is time. He wants a celebration of his life that he can be part of, so he’s throwing a party tomorrow and invited anyone who can make it.

  I want to be there, of course, but there are some hiccups: (a) He lives in Oregon, and I’m in Los Angeles, and (b) the odds of my parents being down with me traveling by myself to another state to meet a dying boy I’ve befriended on the internet before he ends his life is less than zero. That blows way past their collective comfort zones.

  And they don’t even know about the call I received yesterday. Now that I’m eighteen, the doctors talk directly to me. That call has only pushed me to want to go. I’m tired of feeling like I have to ask permission from my parents or my doctors or the freaking universe to live my life. If my doctor can treat me like an adult, it seems like my parents should too. I don’t have the luxury of time to make them comfortable with the idea of my going to Oregon.

  By the time I’m done prepping and get everything into chilled metal bins for the lunch crowd, the three teenagers in the front booth are gone. Most likely on their way to graduation practice. I passed the digital signboard at the high school on my way in, and it said that was today. I already got my GED a few months ago, so I won’t be there.

  I also won’t be spending my summer taking selfies at the beach with half a dozen of my closest friends or loading up a cart with cute dorm essentials; I won’t be heading off to college in the fall. My parents long since burned through those savings.

  I can accept it for myself, but it’s the worst thing in the world knowing I robbed my little brother, Dylan, of that. He’s such a smart kid. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

  Another server arrives, so Mom tells me I can leave. I take the bus home because I still don’t have my license. Unheard of for most eighteen-year-olds, but I don’t actually mind. I like the bus. I can be anybody on my way to anywhere, the same as everyone else. We’re all background extras in each other’s stories as we move collectively from one space to the next. It’s a different experience every time.

  At home, I anxiously check the message board for an update on Owen. I was nervous to look again while I was out in the world in case something had happened and I needed to fall apart. As I scan the recent posts, I realize I’m holding my breath.

  Nothing.

  Okay, that’s actually a good sign. No news is good news.

  My phone chirps with a text, and I nearly jump out of my seat. It’s Lainie, this girl I know from a jewelry-making class and hang out with sometimes. She’s going to her dad’s beach house this weekend and wants to know if I’d like to come.

  Lainie’s cool. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions. We mostly make jewelry, talk about movies we’ve seen lately—surface stuff like that. Before I got sick, I used to dream of becoming a professional jewelry designer, a true artisan who travels the world collecting precious stones that I handcraft into beautiful pieces to sell. After my diagnosis, I lost my passion for it. It seemed pointless to think about the future when I didn’t even know if I’d have a place in it. Lainie’s been trying to encourage me to get back into it. I’ve only recently made my first piece of jewelry—a bracelet—in nearly six months.

  My parents would absolutely encourage me to go. It could be the perfect cover story. If they think I’m spending the weekend at Lainie’s, I could go to Oregon and be back without them ever knowing I’d been gone.

  I break it down in the most general terms to Lainie. I tell her I’m going to visit a friend but that my parents might not be cool with it because they can be overprotective. As usual, she doesn’t ask for details, which I appreciate, and she agrees to cover for me on the off chance my parents call. We spend the next few minutes working out a plan, and then I’m online checking bus times because this is actually happening.

 
I’m really doing this.

  There’s a bus leaving at ten thirty this evening with open seats. If I travel overnight, I don’t need a hotel. But I do need a credit card to buy a ticket. Fortunately, there are ways to navigate around that.

  I tear around at the back of my closet until I unearth the Hello Kitty suitcase from Target that my grandmother sent me for Christmas three years ago. It still has the clearance tags on it. She’s always sending me fun cat things because she knows I love them even though I can’t have one because Dylan is allergic. I never imagined I’d actually have a use for it.

  I don’t need much, really. I’ll only be gone for two days. I pull together an extra T-shirt, a hairbrush, clean socks, and underwear.

  My eyes snag on the bottle of pills sitting on my desk. I hate the way the drug makes me feel, but I’m supposed to keep taking it every day. I pop open the cap, empty one into my hand and am about to swallow it down when I hear a noise in the other room.

  Dylan’s home. He calls out, “Hello?”

  “Yeah—I’m here!” I yell. I quickly shove my half-packed suitcase in the closet and shut the door.

  I find him in the kitchen pouring a glass of milk to go with a large stack of Chips Ahoy! cookies. He’s at that totally awkward stage of being a thirteen-year-old boy where his voice cracks and his feet, arms, legs, and hands seem to be growing faster than the rest of his body. His sandy-colored hair hasn’t seen a comb in a while, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

  “Hey! How come you’re home? No end-of-school pool party blowout bash where everyone gets hammered on Capri-Sun?” I kid.

  He dunks a wedge of cookie in the milk. “Nope. They were going to Raging Waters.”

  I can hear the downward lilt in his tone that lets me know he’s disappointed but isn’t dwelling on it, because what’s the point? He doesn’t get to do a lot of the expensive stuff his friends do. He had to give up extracurriculars like karate and piano lessons, but he takes it all in stride and doesn’t complain. I wish I could be more like him.