by Lisa Suzanne
I lift a shoulder. “Figure it can’t hurt to know how to do it myself.”
She looks at me in wonder for a beat, and then understanding seems to dawn. “Is my little boy growing up?”
I laugh. “I’m twenty-nine, Ma. I grew up a while ago.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You didn’t even ask me what I wanted for Christmas this year. Or your father. What’s going on with you? Usually I have to do the shopping for you.”
I shrug. “Nothing’s going on.”
She flattens her lips, clearly attempting to hide her wide smile. “Is there a girl?”
I roll my eyes—not at her for the accusation, but at myself. How could I be so goddamn obvious? “No.” It’s not a lie. There was a girl, but she dumped me last night.
She shakes her head with a short laugh. “Liar. I’ll get it out of you yet, kiddo. Follow me.”
I wind through the house I grew up in toward the laundry room.
“So what’s her name?” she asks once she’s shown me how to separate the lights from the darks.
“Amber,” I say without hesitation, and then I realize my mistake.
She raises a brow. “No girl, huh?” she asks.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“How long have you been seeing her?” she presses.
I keep my eyes on the dark clothes in the washing machine. “Two months.”
“Two months? You were with her at Christmas, then?”
I nod.
“And you didn’t mention her?”
I shake my head.
“And she’s already talked you into learning how to do your own laundry?” She hands me a package with little jelly things in it.
I shake my head. “I want to learn for myself.”
“Right.” Her voice is full of sarcasm not unlike my own tone ninety percent of the time.
“We broke up last night,” I say softly.
“Oh, honey,” she says, and she runs her hand through my hair gently before she gives me a tight hug.
My chest aches.
I still can’t believe it’s real. And as my mother hugs me, I realize a well of emotion is building inside me. I’m not used to this shit. I don’t know how to deal with it, and so I don’t. I never do. I bury the feelings deep down, and I let others make plans for me, and I just ride the wave.
“It’s fine,” I say, pulling out of our hug. “I’m fine. What comes after I get the load in the washer?”
She nods toward the package. “One pod for a small load, two for a big one.” Her eyes fall back to me, and she studies me.
I know I’m not getting out of here without giving her more details, and now that I think about it, that’s probably why I’m here right now.
To talk about Amber. To grieve a little. To complain that I have to take this road trip to the only person I know who will listen and not judge me.
And to start growing up. Amber dumped me because I did something stupid and immature. Maybe it’s time to start learning to do things for myself—to start becoming a man, even if it’s tiny, baby steps like learning how to do my own laundry.
I glance inside the machine. “Would we call this small?”
She nods, and I toss in a jelly thing. She shows me which buttons to press, and honestly this doesn’t seem that hard and I’m not really sure why I waited this long to learn.
I guess there’s a lot I have to learn, and this seems like a great first step.
“So what happened?” she asks tentatively once we’re settled on the couch. She has a cup of tea and she blows on it to cool it. I don’t have anything because I’m hungover.
I lean my head back and stare up at the ceiling while she studies me while I try to form the reasons she gave for our break-up. To be honest, I’m still a little unclear about the whole thing.
“A lot of things. But the tipping point was when I was arrested. She didn’t like that she found out about it from some entertainment news site instead of from me,” I say.
“I can understand that,” she says.
I sit up and glance over at her. “Seriously? You’re siding with her?”
She shrugs. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m not siding with anybody. But what you did was stupid, and I get that she’d feel hurt that she found out from someone other than you. Do you make her feel important and special?”
“I dunno,” I mutter, leaning back again to stare at the ceiling.
Do I? Did I?
She’s so strong and independent that I never really thought that making her feel important would be a significant part of a relationship. It makes me wonder about her other relationships and why she’s still single when she’s such a catch.
“I have no idea how to navigate women and relationships,” I admit.
“It just takes practice,” she says. “And usually a lot of apologizing. Do you love her?”
“Yep,” I say, and she chuckles and then squeezes my knee.
“Then it’ll all work out. You’ll find a way to get her back.”
We’re quiet as I process that, and then I blurt, “We’re taking a road trip.” I glance over at her to gauge her reaction, and I see surprise in her eyes.
“Even though you broke up?”
“Yep,” I say again. “We signed a contract for the band’s reality show that basically said even if we break up, we still have to take the trip and we have to pretend to be a couple.”
“I won’t ask why you signed something that said that. Instead, I’ll ask this: how’s that going to go?” She takes a sip of her tea.
“I have no idea. Probably not well.”
My phone notifies me of a text.
It’s from her.
Amber: I knew I should have read that before I signed it. Pick me up at eight on Saturday morning. This doesn’t change things.
She’s right.
It doesn’t change things.
And I’m going to have to start figuring out how to pretend when in reality, I’m pissed that she broke up with me over something so goddamn dumb.
CHAPTER 15: AMBER
He turns the key in the ignition of his restored and updated 1987 Ford Bronco truck, a fake smile on his face.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod even though I want nothing to do with this trip.
Hate and love ride a narrow line, and I’m teetering. I’m angry with him, and when you break up with someone, it’s not natural to have to fake being in love with them. I’m working hard to stay on the side I stubbornly find myself on, but there’s some sort of magnet that keeps trying to sway my balance.
I shake out those thoughts and focus on something else. It feels good knowing I have the next month off work. I don’t have to stick needles in peoples’ arms. I don’t have to take vitals. I don’t have to count pills and change sheets. The only life I’m responsible for is my own, and there’s something liberating in that.
It’s risky to take so much time off work for a number of reasons, including the fact that I’ll get kicked to the back of the pack when it comes to scheduling. But I was so excited to do it when I thought I was going on this epic adventure with the guy I was starting to think of as my boyfriend. Now, though, I just want to get to Maine, find my truth, and get back home.
“This feels good,” he says, setting his phone into a holder and pulling up the GPS. He opens the stored trip he saved—the one he’s been working on for the last couple days, and I’m surprised that he took the time to plan anything at all.
“It does,” I say, kicking off my shoes. “How far are we going today?”
“I figured we’d just follow the route until we get tired of being in the car. How’s that sound?”
Like shit. That’s what I want to say. The idea of just driving until we get tired is about as appealing to me as swimming in a bucket of worms. I need a destination, an end goal.
But this is his thing. I’m really just along for the ride because I signed a stupid contract. “Sure,” I say.
> “I’m kidding. I booked us a five-star hotel in Sedona. It’s a little over seven hours away, but I thought we could spend some time there tonight before we get back on the road tomorrow. Unless you want to spend two nights there. We can do that, too.”
“Five stars?” I murmur in a bit of surprise.
I feel his eyes on me. “I figured that’s what you’d want.”
Am I really that high maintenance? “I thought your whole idea here was to drive until we’re tired and find some shitty motel to sleep in.”
He nods. “That was my idea.” He pauses. “Back when I thought I was taking this trip alone. Back when I didn’t have someone with me who deserves five stars and beyond.”
The words are sweet...too sweet. Sugary sweet.
And instead of the joy that should come with that, I feel a sadness starting to pull me down. He’s only saying it for the cameras. He’s pretending.
“What’s your favorite road trip game?” he asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.
I lift a shoulder. “We weren’t really a road trip family when I was growing up.”
“We were,” he says, “but I’ve spent a lot of time on the road with MFB, too. I was always partial to the license plate game, but Dax created a drinking game for the road that we always play.”
“What is it?”
“Hot Seat.” He glances over at me but quickly returns his attention to the highway. “The person in the hot seat gets asked five questions. You can pass once but you gotta chug a beer.”
“Did you bring beer?” I ask, glancing behind me at the cooler perched on the backseat of his truck.
He chuckles. “Well, yeah, but we won’t drink in the truck. It’s not like the bus. We can add ‘em up and chug later. Or take shots.”
“Okay, let’s play,” I say, accepting the challenge. “You ask the questions first since I’ve never played.”
He nods. “I’ll start with easy road trip ones first. Least favorite type of music?”
I narrow my eyes at him. I feel like he’s storing up ammunition against me, but I answer anyway. “Country.”
“Least favorite fast food?”
Now I know he’s storing this information, but for some reason, I answer honestly anyway. “McDonald’s.”
I’m about to tell the story of why when he laughs and says, “I feel like there’s a story there but I’m not wasting a question on asking what it is. Dream vacation?”
“Fiji. One of those cabins that sits out over the water.”
He nods and looks impressed for a beat before he asks his next question. “Worst date ever?”
I laugh. “Oh, God. Too many to pick just one. Could be the time my date threw up on my shoes, or the time I went to the bathroom after dinner and this woman in the bathroom told me she worked with my date and was friends with his wife, or the time the guy’s mom dropped him off at my house...”
“That last one doesn’t sound so bad.” Of course the guy whose mother still does his laundry would say that.
“He was twenty-six.”
He laughs. “Okay, pretty bad then. Sounds like a bunch of winners.”
“And now you know why I was single when we met up that night in Vegas. Last question?”
“What’s the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning?”
I think about my various morning routines. “It depends on whether it’s a workday or not. Workdays I turn off my alarm, hop out of bed to start the coffee, and go to the bathroom. Same on farmer’s market Saturdays. But on the days I’m off work, I wake up when I wake up, scroll my phone awhile, and then either get out of bed or lie there and watch TV.”
“Wait a minute,” he says. “Hold on just one second. You don’t have a programmable coffee maker so it just turns on while you sleep and is ready when you wake up?”
My brows draw together. “No. Should I?”
“It would revolutionize your morning routine.”
I scoff. “Okay, I’ll look into one. So is it your turn now?”
He nods.
“How do you take your coffee?”
“Black,” he says immediately.
“I once read an article that said people who take their coffee black are psychopaths,” I say, and he glances over at me with one brow raised.
He lifts a shoulder. “Accurate.” Then he laughs. “It’s also the healthiest option. You know how many preservatives and calories are in that cream we keep in our fridge?”
“See?” I say. “Only psychos care about preservatives and calories.”
We both laugh at that, but it’s forced. It’s strange getting this little hint into who he is—and it also feels like something I should know after being with him for two months. I guess it’s just something I haven’t paid attention to.
“What’s your favorite kind of donut?” I ask.
“Kane introduced me to this little place in Carlsbad that has these incredible maple bacon donuts.”
“But cream has too many preservatives and calories,” I say, repeating his earlier statement and inflecting the end of my words so it sounds like a question.
He chuckles. “Is that a question?”
“Hell no! I’m not wasting a question on that. Have you ever been skinny dipping?”
“Yes.”
“Care to expand?”
“I realize this is your first time playing this game, but that would be a wasted question. Rephrase to something like, what was the best skinny dipping experience you’ve had?”
“Nah. I’ll get it out of you later. Let’s see, coffee, donuts, naked swimming...” I tap my finger on my chin as I try to come up with another question. “Describe your family in three words.”
He thinks for a beat. “Loving, funny, and small.”
I’m curious what his mom’s like and whether I’ll get to meet her someday.
And that’s when it dawns on me: I won’t.
We’re pretending.
Before, I wanted to meet his family. I wanted to know how I’d fit into the loving, funny, small group of people who are most important to Will.
But now...we’re not even together even though we’re pretending like we are.
“Your turn,” I say, but some of the wind feels like it’s been taken out of my sails at the turn of my thoughts.
“Tell me the first joke you can think of right now,” he says.
“Oh, God,” I say, and his eyes dart over to me. “What?”
He just shakes his head.
“What?” I press.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just the same thing you say when...well, you know.”
Yet another thing I won’t get to experience with him again.
I clear my throat and tell the only joke that comes to mind in some effort to lighten the tension in here. “Why does a chicken coop have two doors?”
He shrugs.
“If it had four, it would be a chicken sedan.” I can’t help my giggle even though it’s the cheesiest joke ever.
He doesn’t even offer a small chuckle to pacify me. Instead, he moves onto the next question. “If you could pick your life’s theme song, what would you choose?”
Just like with the joke, I say the first song that comes to mind. “‘It’s Time’ by Imagine Dragons.”
“Interesting choice. So you’re never changing who you are? Noted.”
He’s egging me on, but the truth of the matter is that no, I’m not going to change who I am.
“Next question?” I say.
“What would you be doing with your life if you never had to work again?” he asks.
“Baking cookies.” I don’t even need to think about that one. It’s my favorite hobby.
“Toilet paper over or under?”
“Over.” That’s one of those non-negotiables. If he’s an under guy, there’s no hope for a future together...not that there’s any hope anyway.
I can’t seem to stop thinking about a future that includes him, though.
“What’s
a really strange food combination that you like?” he asks.
“Pickles and ketchup,” I murmur.
He makes a face. “Together? Like you dip your pickles in ketchup?”
I lift a shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Gross. Your turn.”
“Same five,” I challenge.
He nods. “I like it. Okay, the first joke that comes to mind...what do a Rubik’s cube and a dick have in common?”
“What?” I ask.
“The more you play with it, the harder it gets.”
I giggle.
“My theme song would be ‘So What’ by Pink.”
I don’t comment, but the fact that he chose a song that talks about how he’s still a rock star even without me speaks volumes.
“If I never had to work again, I’d probably still play music, even if it was just a hobby. Or just play video games all day.”
I refrain from saying that’s basically what he does now.
“My weird food is Cheetos dipped in milk.”
“That’s disgusting,” I say. “And childish.”
“Childishly delightful. Try it someday.”
“No thanks. Toilet paper?”
“I don’t really care as long as the roll isn’t empty, but people have such strong opinions about it that I figured you were one of them.” He says it so flippantly, like there’s something wrong with me for having an opinion, and I hate that it’s come to this already when we just got started on this trip. He’s goading me, finding ways to get on my nerves, and we’ve just barely left San Diego. We’ve got a lot of trip ahead of us, and it’s going to be a long one pretending to be in love when he’s purposely doing things to irritate me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing at all,” he says, but my overly-analytical mind is working overtime.
We play the Hot Seat game for the majority of the drive until we run out of questions, and then we sing along to songs on the radio. I take out my cookies and flash them to the camera, and as we get closer and the mountains start to turn that rusty red color Sedona is famous for, the sun begins to set. The scenery is unimaginable, deep violets fading into a bright magenta above the mountains. Something about it brings a certain sense of peace to my chest, only serving as a total contrast to the fact that I’m taking this trip with my ex-boyfriend because I signed a contract, not because I want to be here.
