“You must not be from around here.”
“Nope.” I shake my head, and the motion makes me dizzy. I lean against the bar.
Across the room, Ben says, “This next song is called ‘One Night Only,’ and it’s a slow one. So partner up, lovebirds.”
“This is my friend’s favorite song,” I say.
“It’s a good one,” Luke agrees. He gestures toward the dance floor, leaving our half-finished drinks behind. “Do you wanna—?”
I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me onto the dance floor. Luke slides his arm around my waist. I breathe in his cologne, the smell of his hair. The song is romantic, the kind that makes you want to dance forever.
He puts his hand under my chin and tilts my face up toward his. Just an inch closer, and our lips would be touching. “Where in the world did you come from, Dessa Roads?”
I laugh. “You keep saying my name.” Sort of.
“Well, it’s pretty. Like you.” He wraps his hand around the back of my neck, and brushes the tip of his nose against mine. “Can I kiss you, Dessa Roads?”
My heart pounds in my chest. “Yes.”
He presses his lips to mine. They’re warm and soft. The noisy bar fades away as we kiss, slow and gentle. He tastes like beer, or maybe it’s me—I don’t know, but I like it. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, so I’m pressed up against him. The kiss deepens, and I feel everything I’ve been worried about slipping away. All that matters is the way our lips move together, pulling me under.
“We have to go,” a voice says into my ear. “Now.”
I pull back from Luke, but I’ve barely had a chance to smile at him when Taryn grabs my arm and yanks me off the dance floor. “What are you doing?” I demand.
“We’re leaving.”
Up onstage, Ben Mathers switches to a new song. I try to catch sight of Luke, but he’s lost in a sea of people on the dance floor. I pull my arm away from Taryn. “I want to stay for one more song.”
She shakes her head, her eyes wide and pleading. “No, we have to go now.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen with that blond girl?”
Luke appears beside me, but he’s not smiling anymore. He takes my hand. “Taryn, why don’t you run along now.”
“Wait,” I say. “You guys know each other?”
He smirks, and I take a step back, letting go of his hand. Beside me, Taryn’s eyes are starting to fill with tears. “Remember how I told you I used to date the bartender?” she asks, holding her arms out as if presenting Luke to me. “Meet the shittiest whiskey sour maker in Oklahoma.”
“What?” I stare at Luke. “Did you know I was here with her this whole time?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
Taryn tugs on my arm again. “Dessa, please. Let’s go. It’s almost one and the buses stop running soon.”
“Shit.”
“Don’t leave,” Luke says, his hand snaking around my waist again. “Forget her.”
I push him away. “You’re a jerk.”
“You didn’t think that a minute ago,” he says, running his thumb along his lips. “And neither did the last girl I kissed to piss Taryn off.”
His words hit me hard. Any possibility that he actually liked me goes flying out the window. I finally meet someone new, and it all turns out to be a big joke.
“You know what?” I grab a stranger’s beer off a nearby table. “Go to hell.”
Then I throw the beer in his face.
It’s like the world around us freezes. The music stops, the people disappear. It’s just Taryn, Luke, and me, staring at one another. I should be worried that making a scene will get me busted for underage drinking. I should be scared that Luke is going to hurt me or Taryn. But all I feel is satisfaction as I watch the beer running down his handsome face and off his chin.
Then Taryn takes my hand, and the music blares back to life. “Come on,” she says. We dive into the safety of the crowd. Behind us, I hear Luke yell, “Stop!”
I glance over my shoulder to see if he’s following us, but there are twice as many people here as when we arrived, and I can’t see him. Taryn and I don’t slow down. We move forward together, practically shoving drunks out of our way. Twice I have to yank my arm away when guys try to pull me toward them, and I almost trip over a barstool in my hurry to escape.
We finally make it to the front of the bar. Taryn throws open the door and we burst out onto the sidewalk.
“Whoa!” Eddie says. “Where’s the fire?”
“Luke,” Taryn pants. “He’s coming.”
Eddie’s face hardens. “What happened?”
“It was my fault,” I say, stepping forward. “I kissed him.”
“She didn’t know who he was,” Taryn says. “And then she . . . well . . .” She looks at me helplessly.
“I threw my beer in his face.”
Eddie’s eyes go wide. “You did what?”
The door flies open.
“What the fuck was that?” Luke yells. His shirt is soaking wet. “You bitches!”
Eddie steps between Luke and us, his arms crossed over his chest. “Go back inside.”
“Hell no,” Luke says.
“They don’t want to talk to you,” Eddie says. “Now go back inside.”
Luke narrows his eyes. “Shut up, Eddie. You have nothing to do with this.”
He tries to push past, but it’s like trying to move a mountain. “Get out of my way, damn it.”
Beside me, Taryn whimpers. She looks so small, nothing like the fearless girl who led me through the bar and onto the dance floor.
“Taryn, why don’t you and your friend head on home,” Eddie says, not taking his eyes off Luke. “Me and this fool are gonna have a little talk.”
Luke takes a step back. “Listen, man, I just want to talk to my girlfriend. That’s all.”
“I’m not your girlfriend!” Taryn says. I squeeze her hand, trying to tell her to keep quiet, but she doesn’t take the hint. “We broke up.”
I tug at Taryn’s hand. She resists, but I pull harder. Luke tries to follow us, but Eddie blocks him.
“Come on,” I say, dragging Taryn down the street.
The night feels colder than when we arrived. I reach for my hoodie, but it’s gone—I must have lost it in the bar. I wrap my arms around myself. This night hasn’t turned out at all like I expected. I glance over at Taryn. She’s walking in silence, her eyes glossy with tears. “I’m really sorry,” I say.
She stops walking. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have left you before. I knew he was going to be here tonight.” She hiccups, and laughs. “I can’t believe you threw a beer in his face.”
The rush of the moment sweeps through me all over again. “I shouldn’t be allowed to drink.”
“Technically, I don’t think you are.”
We burst out laughing, and Taryn links her arm in mine. “At least one good thing came out of this night.”
“Oh yeah?”
She shows me her phone. “I got that girl’s number.”
“Nice!”
We keep walking, our conversation turning to line dancing and Ben Mathers, but when we reach the bus stop, Taryn turns to me and frowns. “Do you know how to get back home?”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
She shakes her head. “This bus doesn’t go to my house. I have to get the twenty-four.”
“Oh, okay. Well . . .” We stand there for a second, looking at each other. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Wait,” she says, pulling out her phone. “We need to swap numbers. I want to keep in touch.”
“Really?”
Taryn hands me her phone. “Yes, really. Why wouldn’t I?”
I reach into my purse and pull out my cell, which is still turned off. While I wait for it to turn on, I plug my number into her phone. I can’t remember the last time I bothered to exchange information with someone on the road. I rarely hear from anyone for more than
a week or two after we meet, so eventually I just stopped trying to stay in touch. I figured if I ever wanted to see them again, I could find them on Instagram.
“Your phone’s back on,” she says.
“Thanks.” I give her phone back, then quickly type my password into mine. “Make sure you save your name under ‘Taryn OKC,’ ” I say, handing the phone over.
It immediately buzzes in her hand. “Dude . . . you have a ton of text messages. And missed calls.”
“Oh, no.” I grab the phone back. She’s right. My mom has called me four times, and so has my dad. There’s even a missed call from Cyrus and Mrs. McAlister. Not to mention all the text messages. “Shit. Shit.”
“Should you call home?” Taryn asks.
“Yeah . . .” I try to dial, but my hands are shaking.
“Let me help.” She takes the phone from me and selects my mom’s number. Then she hands it back. “Just stay calm.”
Mom picks up on the first ring. “Dessa! Are you okay?”
I cringe. “Hi, Mom. I’m fine.”
“Peter! It’s her.”
“Thank god,” my dad says in the background. “Is she okay? Where is she?”
“I’m fine,” I say again, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m near downtown.”
“Why?” she demands, her voice losing its worried edge. Now she just sounds pissed. “Why aren’t you here, where you’re supposed to be?”
“I went out for a little while,” I say, “and I lost track of time—”
“It’s almost one thirty!” Mom yells. I have never, in my entire life, heard her this angry. “Do you have any idea how scared I’ve been? I was just about to call the police. You know how I feel about them.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to—”
Dad picks up the phone. “Where are you exactly?” he says, his voice gruff.
I look up at the sign for the bus and tell him where I am. A few blocks away, a number twenty-four bus turns onto our street. Taryn barely glances at it.
“Dad . . . I’m really sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“We’ll be there soon. Don’t move.”
“Okay. Bye.” I hang up.
“Are they coming?” Taryn asks. She looks almost as freaked out as I feel.
“Yeah.” I comb my fingers through my hair in an attempt to make it look more presentable, but it’s hopelessly tangled and sweaty.
Taryn bites her lip and looks down the street at the approaching bus. It’s only a block away now. “Okay. I’ll wait with you.”
“No . . . you should go.”
“I shouldn’t leave you out here alone. It’s late and your parents—”
“They’ll be here soon.” The bus pulls up and the door opens. “Go.” I give her a quick hug and then push her toward the bus.
“Are you sure?” she says, stopping in the doorway. “Because I can wait for the next one.”
“Are you getting on or not?” the driver says.
“She’s getting on,” I call back.
“I’ll text you,” Taryn says. “And sorry, again. About tonight.”
The doors close. I sink down to the curb and watch the bus drive away. I can’t believe I missed those calls. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to turn off my phone. I can’t believe I kissed a guy I barely knew, and then threw beer in his face.
But as I sit on the curb, listening to the crickets, I can’t help but smile.
The night might have been a disaster, but I had a great fucking time.
CHAPTER 8
“Get up.”
I open my eyes just as Mom walks away from my bed. I push myself to a sitting position, grimacing when my stomach gives a nasty lurch. My head is foggy and heavy, and my mouth tastes like sour milk. The night rushes back to me, like a Mack truck headed straight for my face. I groan and lie down again. This is what I get for being spontaneous.
“Up!” Mom calls.
“Okay, okay.” I take a sip of water from the bottle stashed between my bed and the wall, then climb down the ladder. I’m still wearing my beer-soaked shirt from last night, though I changed into a pair of pajama pants in the few seconds before my parents turned off the lights. I had expected an argument after being picked up, or at least a serious lecture, but instead they pulled the RV into a parking lot, turned off the engine, and walked straight back to their room.
I was too hyped up to notice where we parked last night, but one look at the giant blue building outside tells me we’re at Walmart. It’s only seven, which means I got less than five hours of sleep. I want coffee, but instead I sit at the table. And wait. I don’t know where Mom went. She might be avoiding me, but there’s no way Dad’s going to let last night go entirely. Maybe they’ll ground me—it’ll be the first time since I was twelve, when Cyrus and I decided the long stretch of grass along a Mississippi highway was the perfect place to play tag.
The side door opens and my dad steps inside.
“Hey,” I say, my voice raw. I clear my throat. “I’m really sorry.”
Rodney pushes past him into the RV. “Dad says you snuck out. Where did you go?”
Dad’s eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch, but he doesn’t say anything. In fact, he doesn’t even wait for my answer. He walks to the front of the RV and sits down in the driver’s seat, his back to me.
His message is loud and clear: I have nothing to say to you, and you have nothing to say that I want to hear.
“Well?” Rodney asks. “Where were you?”
I rub my temples. “Go away.”
“Dad is really mad.”
“No shit.”
“Don’t cuss at your brother,” Mom says as she comes out of the back. I pull my knees up to my chest so she can walk by the table, and rest my chin on my folded arms.
“We need to talk about last night,” she says quietly. The skin around her eyes is a little yellow and puffy, like she got even less sleep than I did.
“Okay,” I say. “Now?”
“No,” Dad says from the front seat, his voice harsh in the morning air. “Later. You may have forgotten, but we’re all trying to get to Santa Fe in time so you can start an internship.”
I sink back into the booth, his words washing over me. Mom looks at me, and for a second I think she’s going to reassure me that everything is okay. Instead, she turns to my brother. “Rodney, please sit down. We’re leaving.”
Dad pulls the RV onto Interstate 40 West. There aren’t too many cars on the road since it’s so early. Mostly big trucks and a few delivery vans, probably full of milk and eggs from local farms. I stare out the window, my head resting against the glass, and count license plates. Oklahoma, California, Oklahoma, Oklahoma, Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, New Mexico. It takes almost fifty license plates before I see a state I haven’t visited.
My phone buzzes in my pocket during hour two. I pull it out and see a text message from Taryn. How bad is it?
Bad, I write back.
A second later, she replies, Silent treatment or screaming?
So far mostly ST + disappointed head shaking, I reply. Real punishment is still coming.
Bummer. Text me later.
As shitty as I feel, I still smile. Maybe Taryn really does want to keep in touch. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have a friend other than Cyrus. Especially one as fearless as Taryn.
Eight grueling hours later, we arrive in Santa Fe. The other families ditched us for Albuquerque almost an hour ago. Dad says it’s because they wanted to check out some restaurant called Sophia’s that makes duck enchiladas, but the real reason is that they don’t want to be around when my mom finally snaps. Cyrus texted a few times, apologizing for ditching us, but I told him I didn’t blame them for steering clear of the cold war going on in our RV. He tried to swap stories about our nights but the last thing I want is to hear how his stupid date with Rachel went, especially after the way things turned out with Luke, so I turned off my phone.
> We pull into YiaYia’s driveway around three, right in the middle of her weekly hair appointment. We let ourselves into her single-story adobe house with the key she keeps hidden under a flowerpot in the back. I wander around, flipping switches, flooding the colorful home with light. When I finish, I run my fingers against the orange accent wall in the living room. Even though it’s a dry eighty degrees outside, the combination of the air conditioning and the stucco walls keep the inside of the house comfortable. I walk between the couches in the middle of the sunken living room and stop in front of YiaYia’s wood-burning fireplace. It would be intimidating if not for the painting of yellow yucca flowers—the very one that inspired me to paint my own—hanging in the center of the wall.
Mom appears in the doorway. “Get unpacked, Dessa. You know how your grandma feels about us sleeping in the RV when we visit.”
I pull my seldom-used suitcase into the guest room that Rodney and I share. YiaYia hates the idea of us all cooped up outside when we could be in the house with her, which is more than fine with me. I’m eager to sleep in a normal-size bed in a normal-size room, beneath one of YiaYia’s hand-knit afghan blankets. I prop my suitcase up on the dresser and unzip it. A framed photo of Patras—the coastal city in Greece where YiaYia was born—hangs crooked on the wall in front of me. I tip it back into place. Someday YiaYia will take me there, and we’ll spend our days swimming in the warm Mediterranean, and our evenings drinking wine and eating flaming saganaki. Someday.
When I’m finished unpacking, I turn around to find Rodney splayed out on his twin bed reading a beat-up book called Poop Jokes for the Easily Amused. I don’t know where he got it, but I have a feeling my dad’s name might be scrawled in messy kid handwriting on the inside cover.
I creep over to Rodney’s bed and snatch the book out of his hands. He shouts in protest and grabs for it, but I hold it out of reach, backing away from the bed so he can’t jump on me. I open the front flap, and sure enough it reads, Property of Peter Rhodes.
“Give it back, Dessa,” Rodney demands.
“Nope. It’ll rot your brain.”
“It’s a book!”
“A book about poop. That doesn’t count.”
Rodney gives me the finger.
Your Destination Is on the Left Page 7
