by Tif Marcelo
Maybe Tara’s rah-rah method works after all.
I swing around to the left side of the rig to do what I still consider the worst part of this job: emptying the black and gray tanks. I announce, “Last call, draining the rig,” but Tara’s already there.
“You sure you don’t want me to do it?” I ask.
“Nope. Anyway.” She peaks around me and pauses as Victoria passes us. She has our recycling and is headed down the path. “I wanted to get you alone.”
My heart thuds in my chest. “What’s up?”
“The network loves you. Olivia loves you.”
I don’t know how to respond. “Great.”
Tara squats down and is about to pull the corrugated tube that will connect the RV to the waste dump, when I stop her. “Wait. You forgot your gloves.”
“You all have been doing this with gloves?”
I run back around, climb into the rig, and pull out the box of medical gloves Victoria brought specifically for this trip. Gloves I laughed at when she first unpacked them from her backpack.
How I’m ever going on a camping trip without remembering her, I don’t know.
How I’m not going to look forward to nights alone with her, I can only guess.
How I’m supposed to not speak to her the entire six hours, I have no idea.
Tara is still in the same position I left her in, and I hand her two gloves. She snaps them on like a surgeon. “Ready for download?”
I wince. “Please don’t.”
“Sorry. It’s the ‘head camp counselor’ ”—she puts air-quotes around the term—“in me.” She takes one end of the corrugated tube and reaches under the RV and connects it to the main drain. “Where were we? Oh, right: not only do they love you, there’s some regret that they didn’t cast you first. It’s become apparent you’re more knowledgeable about barbecue, and while the camera obviously loves Victoria, your technical expertise is shining through. If you keep the charm up, then you might take this opportunity.”
A lump forms in my gut like I swallowed a rock. This was something I would’ve wanted to hear in the beginning, but now? It isn’t triumph I feel. Instead, I feel like a dick. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to be ready for it. For the announcement, should it come. Anything can happen, of course. Olivia hasn’t made her decision yet. The impression she’s given me might not be how she feels at the end of this trip. We still have Alford and San Diego. I’m simply warning you so you can prepare for the potential repercussions.”
I raise an eyebrow at her, wondering what she means by that vague statement. She continues, now screwing the other end of the corrugated tube to the waste dump spout. Her voice dips to a whisper as she tests both connections again. “You and Vic have gotten close. I mean, we all have, and at times like this, when one person gets something and the other doesn’t . . . well . . . it’s pretty painful. So . . . this is a strong FYI. Whatever you need to do to prepare for the backlash, do it.”
She pulls the lever that empties the black tank. And what drains is pretty much exactly what I fear the outcome of this entire competition will be.
31
VICTORIA
My productivity has been crap. I’ve spent the last couple of hours in the front passenger seat of the RV, with my laptop propped on my lap, open to the same document I’ve been trying to fill with words. While impatiently waiting for a phone call from Eleanor, the biggest advertiser on my blog who emailed me threatening to pull her ad because of my lack of content, that said document has remained empty.
I take that back. I’ve started sentences only to delete them.
Where do I even start? How do I pick up from the last post? Gutóm was a safe place of expression for me. While the topics centered around food, the rest—my activities and emotions—ended up on the page, too. The post before I went dark was about my anticipation of meeting a “special someone.” Titled “No Chill,” the food featured was a delicious soft serve from a former carnival ice cream stand on the side of the road. That blog post brought in dozens of comments on the blog itself, and thousands of likes on Instagram. Everyone was expecting a happily ever after.
While I’ve journaled every day since the beginning of this trip, not a single ounce of inspiration comes to me now. My words don’t seem to have a place on the screen, and my sentences lack any real emotion. It doesn’t help that Joel and I aren’t sharing our usual banter. We’re civil—the cheer at the campground led by Tara was a reminder, at least to me, that we have work to do—but last night’s conversation changed the trajectory of our relationship. I miss the easy times between us.
It seems the more we try to fix what we have, the more convoluted our situation becomes. Joel thinks I picked Luke over him, and I’m mad at his presumptuousness—he doesn’t get to tell me what to do. But my and Joel’s time is limited as it is, and under the pressure cooker of our competition, it feels imperative we don’t let our misunderstandings go too far. With three days left, we have to make some decisions, though I’m not sure what.
All I know is that I don’t want to lose any more time. He means too much to me for us to push things under the rug. We need to talk about last night.
But, first things first—Eleanor.
As if the universe read my mind, my phone rings in the passenger-door cup holder, and Eleanor’s name flashes on the screen. I snatch the phone out of its place and shut the cover of my laptop, then sling it under my arm and head to the back, to the bed. It’s no longer mine—Adrian’s sleeping bag and backpack is on it—but the memory of what Joel and I did on that bed a short two days ago bowls me over, and I have to clear my throat to speak coherently. “Hello, Eleanor.”
“Victoriaaaa.” The shake of the woman’s voice is grandmotherly. She’s the CEO of a company that makes organic, non-GMO, gluten- and dairy-free energy bars—and they taste good, mind you—that I’m willing to put my name behind. Though I’m a fan of whole, nutritious food, some days there’s only time for an energy bar, and I don’t mind paying top dollar for it. “Where have you been, sweetheart?”
I melt into the phone. This industry is not all cutthroat. If you’re around the food business long enough, the relationships become as tight as family. Eleanor’s company was the first that took the risk to advertise with me, and she’s put me in contact with others who have since done the same. Blog advertising is the way I’ve made my money the last two years.
I almost spew out everything in my heart, but I stop short. I must remain professional. “I apologize for the change on the blog. This stint I’m doing with West Coast Eats—”
“I have been watching you, my dear.”
“Great! I’m glad—”
“I thought your absence was due to a crisis, and when I saw you on television, I . . . I became disappointed. You ditched your advertisers without notice. It was the last thing I expected from you, Victoria.”
“I didn’t mean to ditch anyone—”
“But it doesn’t sound like you’re coming back. You were posting almost every day, and now it’s been, what . . . almost five weeks? We can’t have that. We love your brand and what you stand for. But with our advertising budget the first to be evaluated at every meeting, I want to be able to prove that I’m spending it wisely.”
I hang my head. Eleanor is right to question my business plan. I’ve been selfish, thinking that my decision to ignore my blog would only affect me, when in truth it affects my partners, too. What if my blog can’t recover from my absence and I don’t end up with the next project?
I need to get my head back in the game. “Give me until the end of the week. Let me get my ducks in a row. I apologize for the radio silence, and it won’t happen again. I want to come back with a bang, and I promise it will be worth the wait.”
The seconds tick by in my head while the line goes quiet on her end of the world. Does Eleanor hear my doubt? Will she call me on my bluff? I’ve got nothing planned, but I must try one last time
.
“Okay,” she finally says.
My posture straightens. “Okay?”
“I’ll give you until the end of this week to put something up.”
“I could hug you, Eleanor.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a softy.”
* * *
Despite Vivaldi’s Credo blasting through my noise-cancelling headphones, the document is still blank an hour later. What I have done is check my social media outlets with my phone for the first time in five weeks. I fell into the rabbit hole of conversations and posts and mentions, and my Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram feeds are as busy as they were when I left them. People are still dating, getting engaged, having babies, having fights—everyone seems to have moved on without me. The big question is: How do I jump back in?
You’d better figure it out, or you’re SOL.
My lack of inspiration isn’t helped by the silence in the rig. The tense vibe has not let up, and that’s me being optimistic. Joel has yet to say a word to me.
I take off my headphones. “Joel, we’ve got to quit giving the silent treatment to each other.”
He glances at me, and his lips turn up at the corners slightly. He’s become quite the RV driver these days, hauling butt on the freeway. “You’ve been working. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“So you don’t have anything to say about last night?”
“Was there something that needed to be said about last night?”
“There you go, answering a question with a question.” I sigh. Never mind. Seems that we’re going to be playing this game the rest of the way. I put my headphones back in and attempt to work again.
The landscape had changed from the sprawl of the suburbs to the absolute nothingness of the middle of California, an area I’ve never been to. It’s hot and flat and brown. There’s dirt for miles, the result of decades of drought. The stench of a pig farm wafts through the vents.
I decide to head to the back to write on the dinette table to get some space between me and Joel. I unbuckle my seat belt and stand, when a loud pop echoes through the truck. The rig rocks like the ground during an earthquake, throwing me off-balance. I trip and fall to the linoleum, though I keep my laptop clutched to my chest, thank God. A scraping noise whistles through the rig, twenty times worse than nails on a chalkboard, followed by the squelch of brakes.
The RV finally comes to a stop after it veers to the side of the road.
“Holy shit. You okay?” Joel says. He clicks out of his seat, and soon his shadow is above me. He props me up by the shoulders.
I’m breathless. “Yeah.” I sit up. “What happened?”
“Flat tire, I think.”
He pops the rig door open, and I follow him out. The heat is dry and punishing, and steam rises from the highway. While he heads to check on the tire, I jog up ahead, my phone in my hand. Peering out into the road, I see nothing up ahead. The Suburban and the rest of the crew are long gone, not even a speck on the horizon.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Joel pulls his cap off his head.
I jog back and jump into the cab. I call through the handheld radio, and there’s nothing but static; the Suburban is too far away for the radio to reach. I dial Tara’s number. Except . . . there’s no signal.
I hop back out and approach the tire, or the lack of one. Joel paces to the side of the freeway, as if he expects to find the pieces of tire left on the road, then returns.
I dial Adrian next as I kneel down and survey the real damage. The tire is shredded clean through to the wheel. “Damn.”
The phone beeps and cuts out. I look at the screen, and no bars are lit up on the top-left side. “Still no signal,” I mumble. “Do we have a spare tire?”
“Do you know how heavy this motorhome is?”
“Let’s look around to see if there’s a jack and an extra tire.”
He unlocks the storage compartment on the right side of the RV and tosses me the keys. “You search the other one.”
A couple of minutes later, we meet back at the shredded tire. I’m empty-handed. “No luck?”
“Nope.” He crosses his arms. “Let’s just hope Tara turns around.” He takes out his phone and dials, then puts the phone to his ear. “Damn.”
“We can either sit here and hope they notice we’re not behind them. Or we walk until we get a signal or find help. There’s not enough juice in the generator to make it through the afternoon.”
He’s still punching on the phone—once again, not listening to me. He’s mumbling to himself.
“I’m going to look for an actual physical map,” I say.
“What for? Help will be here soon. I’m sure the crew will turn around.”
“You don’t know that. Meanwhile, we’re just standing here.”
“You could be a little patient, you know? At some point one of them is going to turn around and realize we’re not there,” he says.
“By then they could be an hour down the road.”
“God, you just have to keep pushing. Slow down and think a minute before you jump.”
“And be like you, content to just sit here and wait?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Scratch that, I see our entire conversation, written in the air, like dialogue typed on the computer screen. Suddenly, I don’t think we’re talking about tires and maps anymore. Joel’s face is skewed with pain, and my heart . . . it feels like we’re fighting about last night. “What is going on with us, Joel?”
He turns his back to me. “Nothing. Not a damn thing apparently.”
“Hey, it’s not me who said it first.”
“I can’t discuss this with you.”
Okay then. “I get it. You get your lay for the week. Now that we’re in line for the same job, you’re willing to walk away.”
“You think I’m treating you like a lay? I mean, it’s not like you had the decency to see me last night, after everything. Aside from his name and the fact you were catfished, I don’t know anything about what happened between the two of you.”
“So now I’m supposed to read your mind and come to you when it should have been you apologizing? Or that I should bare my whole history when you don’t reveal anything about yourself?” I stomp toward him as cars speed past. If we were smart, we would’ve stopped our bickering to wave them down. But right now, nothing seems to take precedence over this. “Can you, instead of assuming, instead of just thinking the worst, actually ask me? Ask me what happened. Ask me how I feel about all this.”
He walks away from me, focuses back on his phone.
I take it from his grasp and toss it into the grass.
“Hey!”
“You have a fucking LifeProof cover on it. It will be fine.” I pull his shirt so he’s got no choice but to face me. He resists my grasp, eyes avoiding mine at first, but I hold on to the sliver of hope that our few nights of intimacy will bring him around. That I do affect him somehow.
Then, finally, thank God, he settles. He stops fighting.
Seconds pass while I hear more cars buzz by. His eyes reveal nothing about how he feels, and I imagine myself clawing my way through the glass he’s put up between us. I don’t know where all this is coming from. “Ask me what Luke and I did last night.” I allow a pause, but then continue trying to get rid of the elephant in the room. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all. We ate, we had coffee, we talked. He offered me a relationship. I said no.”
“I heard all that.”
I shut my eyes at this distraction. “Then I said goodbye. I told him goodbye forever. Then I went back to my tent.”
“Why did you speak to him in the first place? I thought it was over.”
“I needed to know why he lied to me.”
“Did you get the answer you wanted?”
“No. There is no good excuse, and I’ve got to accept it.” My body gives. “The details of what happened between Luke and me are inconsequential. It doesn’t matter because the bottom line is that he lie
d. He lied and I believed him. But this thing between us needs to be cleared up. I like you, Joel. When I’m with you, it feels right. I forget there’s an end date. When you aptly remind me that there is one, it hurts, but I accept it. But you can’t try to reel me back if you don’t agree with what I’m doing. You can’t have it both ways.” I inhale a cleansing breath. “That is how I feel. But I don’t know where your brain is at all. You say you don’t want things to change between us. Why, then, does it have to end?”
Under my fingers, his body stiffens; his gaze lifts to the road. I lower my hands and turn in time to hear the faint sound of an engine and to see the Suburban materialize down the road. Its lights flash, letting us know they see us.
32
JOEL
Instead of getting to Alford by three in the afternoon, we roll in at seven, physically exhausted and starving for real food. Although it only took the Suburban crew fifteen minutes to realize we were no longer following behind them and another twenty minutes for them to find us, we had to wait two hours for roadside service to arrive and change our tire.
Old tire, fixed.
Vic and me? Not fixed.
Not even close. With the crew around us on the side of the road, and then Adrian choosing to ride with us so he could give his back a rest and lay down during the trip into Alford, there wasn’t a private moment to finish our conversation.
While the team sets up camp, I chase down Victoria as she hikes to the camp store. My sister arrives in a half hour, and Victoria and I won’t have the night to clear the air. As she turns down a trail, I call out her name.
She turns with a blank look on her face. I gesture toward the empty playground. She takes a seat on one of the swings, and I plop down in the swing next to hers.
“I was engaged once before,” I say, before losing my nerve.
