Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  We keep walking, our faces turned up to the late-afternoon sun. It feels nice to do nothing with Cy, like I’m vacationing in my old life. I’ve been so busy I haven’t realized how much I’ve missed it. Missed him.

  When we reach the end of the next block, Cy stops. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  This is going to be about the pool. I knew it. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe he thought about what I said, and he gets it. Maybe there’s still a way to make this work.

  “Cyrus—about what I said—”

  “No, let me go first, okay? I need to get this out.” He takes a deep breath, his chest filling underneath my dad’s old shirt, then lets it out in one big whoosh. “I called Rachel and we’re going out again. But this time . . . it’s going to be a date.”

  His words hit me like a punch in the stomach. This is not what I thought he was going to say. This is the opposite.

  “I don’t want you to be upset,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “But I realized if you don’t want to be with me, then I have to accept that and move on.”

  Everything inside of me screams that he’s wrong, that I want to be with him. But I can’t bring myself to say it. It’s like something is shifting beneath me, like we’re standing on a piece of ice that’s breaking apart, but if I just reached out—

  “I’m going to borrow my dad’s bike,” Cyrus continues, “and ride to Dallas to see her. I’m going to stay there for a few days.”

  My eyes go wide, but Cyrus shakes his head. “It’s not like that. I’m not staying with her. My dad has some old friends that live in town, and I’ll be couch surfing. But . . . I’m going to see her. Probably more than once. I thought you should know.”

  Suddenly the heat doesn’t matter. It’s like I’m stranded in the middle of a frozen sea, drifting away from land on that same piece of ice, and all I feel is cold and empty and alone. And angry. Really, really angry.

  “That sounds great,” I say, my voice hard. “Really great. I’m sure Rachel will be super happy you’re coming all that way to see her.”

  Cy looks unsure. “Thanks . . . ?”

  “But are you sure staying that long is a good idea? Don’t you think it’ll look . . .” I search for the right word, the word that’ll hurt the most. “Desperate?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, a guy drives all the way to Dallas from Santa Fe, and he stays in town for a few days . . . all for a second date?” I shrug. “Seems kind of extreme for someone you barely know.”

  “What do you know about second dates, Dessa?” Cy says, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve never been on a first date.”

  I tighten my hands into fists. “Shut up.”

  “I’d be surprised if you’ve ever even kissed a guy. And don’t tell me about that dude in Portland last summer. We both know that was bullshit.”

  “Oh yeah? Well . . . it wasn’t bullshit when I made out with a guy that night in Oklahoma.”

  Cy frowns. “What guy?”

  “No one you know,” I say, folding my arms. “He’s a cowboy, and he’s in his twenties. And he was gorgeous.” And a total douchebag I hope I never see again.

  “You’re lying,” he growls. “You’re trying to make me jealous.”

  He stares at me, his chest heaving like he ran here. The silence feels alive and furious, pressing in from all sides. Suffocating.

  When he speaks, it’s hardly more than a whisper. “So a random dude in a bar is good enough for you, but I’m not. Why is that?”

  I swallow, but don’t answer.

  “You think you’re too good for me. For the families. Admit it.”

  I flinch. “That’s not true, I just—I can’t— Please, Cyrus, don’t make me.”

  “Don’t make you what?” Cyrus demands, his face flushing. “Come on, Dessa. Tell me once and for all. And don’t give me any bullshit about wanting to go to art school or being tired of traveling. For once just tell me the fucking truth.”

  “Fine!” I shout. “I can’t be your girlfriend because if I am, that’s all I’ll ever be!”

  His eyes are darker and more icy than I’ve ever seen them. He takes a step back, like he can’t stand to be near me. “I’m going to Dallas tomorrow, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. In the meantime, do me a favor.”

  I wipe my nose, just barely holding back tears. “What?”

  “Get over yourself.”

  He walks away, leaving me standing alone on the side of the road. I watch him go, my head a jumble of words and feelings so loud I can’t think. Then he disappears around the corner, and I sink down to the grass and cry.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Pass the sugar,” Rodney says on Saturday morning.

  I roll my eyes. “Say please, dorkus.”

  Rodney sticks out his tongue.

  “Consider yourself lucky, Dessa,” YiaYia says, taking a sip of her coffee. “It’s going to be his middle finger he’s sticking up at you in a few years.”

  “My baby would never do that.” Mom kisses Rodney on the side of the head and hands him the bowl of sugar. “Only take a little.”

  “What are you doing today, Dessa?” Mom asks, turning to me. “Got any plans for your first day off?”

  “Not sure,” I say, my eyes on Rodney as he spoons sugar into his cereal. “Fiona mentioned that her website needed to be updated so I thought I might look into that. . . .”

  Mom crosses her arms. “I thought you’d want to spend some time with the families. You haven’t been around much lately, and I hear you’ve already decided to skip our trip to Albuquerque.”

  “Mom, I have to work.”

  “Dessa’s not coming to Albuquerque, but she is cleaning the garage today,” Dad says as he opens the newspaper, the dry pages rustling. He looks at me over the top of the Politics section. “Don’t think we forgot your little adventure.”

  I cringe. “Dad, I’m really busy. . . .”

  “Too bad.”

  “Where’s Cyrus?” YiaYia asks. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help out.”

  I dig my nails into the palms of my hands under the kitchen table. I know she’s trying to make my punishment more bearable, but after yesterday, the last thing I want to do is hang out with Cyrus. Not that I could, anyway. By now he’s probably halfway to Dallas, with nothing on his mind but wrapping his arms around Rachel, whispering what a terrible person I am into her ear.

  Dad shuffles the pages of his paper. “Dessa will be cleaning the garage by herself. Besides, Jeff says Cyrus went to Dallas this morning.”

  “Never stop moving,” Mom says with a sigh.

  “Never stop moving,” Dad answers automatically.

  We eat in silence for a while, Rodney slurping up his milk, me focused on chewing as slowly as possible just in case someone else tries to ask about Cy.

  Then Mom clears her throat and looks pointedly at me. “The McAlisters mentioned taking a short trip to see the Grand Canyon tomorrow, after Albuquerque. The girls have never been there, and Rodney hasn’t seen it since he was little.”

  I swallow a painful bite of unchewed cereal. “Mom, I already told you, I can’t leave. Fiona needs me.”

  “It’s just a few days. Surely she can spare you?”

  I think of the pile of work back at the studio, and shake my head. “She really can’t. Let’s just go when the internship is over, okay?”

  “We’ve already put our lives on hold for this internship.”

  I drop my spoon into the bowl. “Are you kidding? When I came home yesterday to hang out with everyone, no one was even here.”

  “We can’t be expected to wait around for you.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “And this internship is why we left Asheville early.”

  “It was raining anyway!”

  YiaYia holds up her hands.

  “Now let’s all calm down a minute.” She turns to my mom. “Geri, if you want to go so badly, then go. Dessa c
an stay here with me.”

  “Yeah,” Rodney says, sneaking another teaspoon of sugar. “Dessa can just stay here.”

  I look to Dad, and I can see from his expression that he’s thinking the same thing as me. He and mom have never left me behind, not even for a long weekend. It’s one thing for the families to split up for a few days, but leaving just one person behind? We’ve never done that before.

  “Is that what you want?” Mom asks me. “To stay here?”

  Everyone looks at me.

  It’s just a week in Santa Fe, I remind myself. But the way my mom is staring at me, I know it means more to her. Like I’m drawing a line in the sand between one life and another. And maybe I am. I finally have a life of my own, a life I care enough about not to up and leave it.

  “I want to stay.”

  Mom’s nostrils flare. “I guess that’s settled then.” She turns to Dad. “What do you think? A few extra days away? I’m sure Jeff wouldn’t mind getting out of town. He’s been working around the clock at that auto shop.”

  Dad frowns. I can practically see him counting the dollar signs.

  “Aren’t tickets to the Grand Canyon kind of pricey?” I ask. When Dad doesn’t answer, I give him a little kick under the table. He ignores me.

  Mom takes a sip of her coffee. “They’re not too expensive. Around fifteen dollars a person, according to the McAlisters, plus thirty dollars for parking the RV. So that’s, what . . .” She looks around the table. “Seventy-five dollars plus food and gas? Not bad.”

  I nudge Dad under the table again. He kicks me back.

  “You should leave today,” YiaYia says. “It doesn’t make sense to drive all the way to Albuquerque and back if you’re just going to leave again right away.”

  “That’s a good point,” Mom says, standing up. “I’ll talk to Jeff and the McAlisters. The twins will go nuts over that old train you can ride to the canyon.” She wipes a little milk off my brother’s face. “Rodney, finish your cereal, then come pack.”

  She hurries out of the kitchen. Dad and I lock eyes for a moment, then he follows her. I slump back in my seat. Why isn’t he even trying to convince her they shouldn’t go?

  “Well,” YiaYia says, “it looks like it’s just going to be you, me, and the Lord this weekend, Dessa.”

  Across the table, Rodney dumps the entire bowl of sugar into his cereal.

  I sink even lower in my chair. “Sounds great.”

  • • •

  YiaYia and I stand together, me drinking a soda, her nursing a glass of white wine. She’s watched me off and on all day, but there’s nowhere to sit out here, and there’s only so long she can stand on crutches. Meanwhile, I’m covered in dust and dirt, my sweaty hair is sticking to my forehead, and the sun is turning my skin a pale pink. It took all morning to pull the haphazardly stacked boxes out of YiaYia’s garage, and all afternoon to move them back inside. But at least it kept my mind off Cyrus.

  “I’m terrible at throwing things away,” YiaYia says, holding up her wineglass as if to toast the packed garage.

  “I can see that.”

  “But it looks much better now. Thank you.”

  I examine my work. Boxes and boxes of books and VHS tapes are off to one side, next to a baby grand piano and three racks of clothes—mostly heavy coats she won’t wear again for months. On the other side of the garage is a bulky piece of wooden furniture she informs me is an armoire, plus three rolled rugs and a second refrigerator filled with frozen food on one side, and beer and soda on the other. After years of living in the RV, I can’t imagine having this much stuff.

  I pick up the last box from the driveway and carry it inside the garage, adding it to a low pile near the front. We’re about to go back into the house, my punishment complete, when YiaYia lets out a soft “oh!”

  “What is it?” I ask as she taps the bottom of one crutch against a box.

  “I forgot all about these,” she says. “Can you open it for me?”

  I kneel on the dusty floor and flip the top off the box. Inside, four stacks of colorful southwestern tile shine up at us, blue and red and green and yellow, each one a different pattern. I pick up a tile printed with a plump orange sun and another decorated with a blue geometric pattern that reminds me of waves. They look like the kinds of tiles that decorate the staircases in fancy Santa Fe hotels, or like the tiles they sell for twenty bucks a pop in the tourist shops on the plaza. “They’re in perfect condition. What were you saving them for?”

  “I wasn’t. Those are the last of the tiles your grandpa made before he shut down his tile yard and retired. He used to bring home pieces of the ones that broke, and we’d find little ways to use them. Have you noticed those pieces of tile around the edge of the pool? Those were his.”

  “They’re in the garden wall, too.”

  “That’s right. Maybe you could use them in your art someday.”

  “They’re already so beautiful on their own.” I pull out a few more, each more colorful than the last, and run my fingers over the surface. The tiles are bumpy and uneven, not like the sort of thing they make in factories.

  “Look at the back,” YiaYia says.

  I turn the red sun tile over in my hand, and I spot a squiggle carved into the back. D. Rhodes.

  “Dmitri Rhodes,” YiaYia says with a small smile. “Those immigration officers were hard of hearing so I had to write the spelling down myself.” She brushes her fingertips over his signature. “He was the love of my life.”

  My stomach twists at her words. What if Cy is the love of my life? If he is, would I feel like this, like everything I want is wrong and selfish? I know love is sometimes about making sacrifices, but doesn’t that mean both people should be giving something up? Why should it just be me?

  I turn the tile over in my hands, and press the smooth surface to my cheek. “YiaYia, how do you know when you’ve found the right person?”

  She gently takes the tile from me and places it carefully back into the box, like a single piece sliding into a jigsaw puzzle. “The right person just . . . fits.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  She takes my hand in hers. “Then you keep looking.”

  • • •

  Fiona picks me up on Sunday a few minutes after YiaYia leaves for her midmorning church service. We drive to the Railyard Art District, and Fiona parks her VW Rabbit in front of a building with glass doors. She pokes around the cup holders until she finds a few quarters, then climbs out of the car, leaving me to peer out the window. I’ve been to galleries all over the country, usually during free art walks or student shows sponsored by local colleges, but this will be the first time I’ve ever gone as more than a random stranger wandering in off the street.

  “You coming?” Fiona calls through the window.

  I get out of the car and straighten my dress, but it’s hopelessly wrinkled from being folded up in the storage compartment under the RV since last spring. I glance out of the corner of my eye at what Fiona’s wearing. She looks effortlessly cool in her navy blue blazer and chunky red heels, her jeans ripped artfully at the knee. Her hair is a little messy too—like she started to comb it and got distracted halfway through by something much more fabulous than getting ready. But I bet Fiona could show up in a potato sack and she’d still look fantastic. It’s something about the way she holds herself, something about the way she wears that paint-stained T-shirt like a badge of honor, that makes her look chic and confident.

  I look down at my scuffed, hand-me-down ankle boots and my faded sundress. I should have dressed up more. I should have borrowed something fancier. Something flashy to use as a diversion in case I say something stupid. I think of my panic attack the other day, and cringe. Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all.

  Fiona links her arm with mine, as if she can read my mind. “You’re nervous, which is natural. But you belong here, Dessa. You’ll see.” She pulls a sleek leather planner out of her bag and hands it to me. “Until then, I sometimes find props t
o be helpful.”

  She opens the glass door to the gallery, and a blast of air conditioning hits us. A gorgeous black girl rushes forward to meet us. “Welcome!” she says in a clipped British accent, pulling Fiona into a hug. They kiss on both cheeks. “You’re late.”

  “Of course I’m late,” Fiona says, throwing her hair over her shoulder with an exaggerated flourish. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

  “And who is this?” the girl asks, turning to me. She looks about twenty-five, and is ridiculously fashionable. I squirm a bit under her gaze.

  “Jordan, meet Dessa,” Fiona answers. “Dessa, this is Jordan. She manages the gallery.”

  Jordan gives me a quick hug and plants an air kiss on either side of my face. “So nice to meet you. You’re her assistant, yes?”

  “She’s my right hand,” Fiona says before I can explain that I’m just an intern.

  Jordan raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

  Her disbelief sucks the air out of the room, but Fiona doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Show us the space?” she asks.

  We follow Jordan across the tiled lobby to a double door. She pushes it open and ushers us inside a large, square white room, almost twice the size of Fiona’s studio.

  “A blank slate,” Jordan says, sweeping her arms out. “I took down the temporary walls as you requested, but I was thinking we could—”

  Fiona holds up her hand. “Don’t tell me. If I know where everything is going, I’ll just obsess about whether it’s in the right place. You and Dessa figure it out.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, but Fiona’s already pulling out her cell phone and walking away.

  I reluctantly turn back to Jordan.

  “So,” she says, “do you have any ideas?”

  “Um . . . I’ve got a few for where we can put the larger pieces.”

  Jordan rolls her eyes. “We can’t simply hang the larger pieces and then throw the small ones up around them.”

  “I know that. What I meant was—”

  “We need a concept. Something to pull the exhibit together.” She taps one of her manicured fingernails against her chin.

  “Right . . .” I chew on my lip, flipping through Fiona’s book of thumbnails in my mind. “Well . . . she likes to do the unexpected. Not just her materials, but with the pieces themselves.”