by Tif Marcelo
I promised Joel no regrets, but I have one.
I wish he was coming down this road with me.
Sixth Destination:
San Diego
RED: Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.
—The Shawshank Redemption
September 8
From: Eleanor Heinz of Trail Food Incorporated
To: Victoria Aquino
Subject: Advertising Follow-Up
* * *
Hi Victoria,
I admit I didn’t know how this was going to end. In our last conversation, you sounded so unsure.
But your post this morning? It was poignant and incredible. From the looks of the comments, I wasn’t the only one waiting for an update.
We’re still on with the rest of the advertising term—that is, as long as you continue to write. You, my dear, have a talent on the page, and I hope that we see more of this.
Here’s to your next chapter.
Eleanor
38
VICTORIA
September 8
I wake at 6 a.m. to a silent campground.
My heart is heavy as I scroll through the comments on my blog post, which are now in the dozens. They’re sympathetic to my absence, some encouraging and empowering. Some want the gritty details of why I left. Others express their happiness at my return. One reader wants to know if my focus is going to be on my blog or television.
My finger pauses on the reply button.
I can’t reveal my plan to the world yet, not until I break it to Tara that I no longer want to be in the running for the next gig, that I’ve reached the end of this chapter.
I realized: uncertainty can’t be an excuse to make a bad decision. I did this project because it was movement somewhere, and it saved me from myself. It kept me from being stagnant, from wallowing in what could have been. It brought me to wonderful people. To Joel.
But the road for this project ends here. I couldn’t live with myself if I gunned for this job out of pride, out of competitiveness and the desire for clout. If I fought to be in front of the world when all I want to be is on the computer screen or page.
After putting my laptop away, I roll up my sleeping bag and am changing into my clothes for the day when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s from Tara: You up? I need to speak to you.
It sounds serious, so I type back quickly. I’m up, packing. I need to speak to you, too.
On my way.
I stuff the backpack with my things, still amazed that I can fit everything important to me in such a small amount of space. Then again, last night, this three-person tent held so much more than I could have expected. Hope. Potential. Joel has expressed his limits, but when he made love to me last night, I felt everything unsaid. And it has to be enough.
Tent now empty, I drag my bag outside, to the canopy area. Because of the dirt, I kept my shoes outside, covered with a towel. When I pull the towel off, I notice my shoes are sitting on a red Converse shoebox. A shoebox that doesn’t belong to me.
My breath hitches. The only other person near my tent since I walked into it last night was Joel.
I pick the box up, shake it for good measure. Things rattle and move. Okay—not shoes. I’m about to open it when Tara walks up. She’s in sweats, hair disheveled. Her forehead is folded in worry.
“What’s wrong?”
Her eyelids flutter closed. She shakes her head, as if she already knows what I’m going to say. “Victoria, you go first. Dear God, put me out of my misery.”
“Um . . . okay?”
“Just say it. Just. Say. It.”
I blow out a breath. Okay, it’s now or never. “I-I don’t want to be considered for the next gig. I appreciate this opportunity, but I’ve got to get back to my blog and my business. I will speak to Olivia as soon as possible. I’ll leave it up to you if you still want me to cohost this last festival, in which case you’ll be getting my best.” I smile meekly. “Besides, we all know it was Joel who stole the show. You don’t need me there.”
Tara’s head lolls forward as in resignation. “I knew it.” Her hand shoots out, holding a piece of paper. “Are you both in fucking cahoots or something?”
I take the note. I read the first line of what looks like an official letter:
To Tara Sullivan,
Thank you for the opportunity to cohost West Coast BBQ, but in light of the competition with my cohost, I respectfully decline to participate in the competition and, therefore, won’t be attending the final segment—”
“What? What?” Equal parts shock and realization run through me. My eyes shoot to the box in my arms.
“Him, then you? You guys can’t do this to me. I need one of you to be there. Dammit.” Tara begins to pace, muttering to herself.
I tear open the box. Inside are DVDs: The Matrix, Three Kings, Pulp Fiction, Titanic, Forrest Gump, and The Shawshank Redemption. Movies we talked about on our road trip. Movies he and I tore apart and discussed; they brought us together. I grin, feeling emotion rise to my chest, causing my neck to warm.
But there’s more. Below the movies is a note:
Dear Victoria,
I hate letters.
In the last day, I wrote two: this one and the one that Tara will soon read.
I’m sorry, sweet Victoria. I’m sorry, but I won’t be there today. I thought I could go through with the last day of the segment, to see this competition through. I thought I wanted this job. The fact that I didn’t get it at first drove me to feel like I needed it. But I don’t want it like this. Not over you, or through you. Nor do I want to hold you back.
Remember our talk about fate and choice? I take back what I said. Fate brought me to you every time, but now I have to make a choice. You asked if I wanted a happily ever after one day, and yes, Victoria, I do.
So I choose the memory and the possibility of us. I choose the red pill and to follow what’s fucking scaring me. I’m charging forward, and I hope that it leads me back to you.
Joel
“Is he not here?” Panic rushes through me and I circle my tent, peering down the line of plots, where the rest of the crew is set up. His tent is no longer there. “Dammit.”
Tara whines behind me. “We have to be in San Diego in two hours to set up and meet the rest of the crew. I can’t have zero hosts. One, I can try to finagle, but not two. You cannot run out on me, Victoria. I will lose my job.”
“Then there’s no time to lose. I have to find him.” I start to pull my tent stakes out of the ground, then change my mind. There’s a faster way to get to him. “Can you handle the tents? I’ll take the RV.”
“No, you can’t go!”
“I have to. Do what you can to stall. Wait for my call. And I’ll see you in San Diego.”
39
JOEL
The slam of the U-Haul rig door echoes through the street, and it’s like the crack of a clapperboard before a scene. The signal of a new chapter. I turn just as my sister walks out of the house with a six-pack of root beer. Seth trails behind her with two bagged lunches.
He hands them to me. “I made the sandwiches. Ham and cheese, and chicken salad.”
“I’m impressed. Your momma’s teaching you some good stuff.” I crouch down, take him so he’s in between my knees. “Listen to her always, okay?”
Seth nods. “But now that your stuff’s gone, will you still visit me?”
“Of course. You can’t keep me away. I’ll get settled, then we can take that Yosemite trip.” I kiss him on the cheek, which is already dirty and sweaty from playing in the backyard. Standing, I reach out to my sister, who envelopes me in a hug. “After I drop the stuff at the storage facility, I’ll grab a rental and head back to Vegas. Darrell gave me a call. His roommate never worked out, so I’ll be staying with him. But call me if you need me, okay?”
“Of course I will.” She steps back. “But, hey, your girl . . . she blogged.�
�
“How do you know about her blog?”
She crosses her arms. “You’re kidding, right? I work with websites, remember? And I’m your sister, which means I did my research. Anyway, read it.” She shoves her iPad into my hands. The tab is already open to Victoria’s blog. With my sister and my hands over the screen to block out the glare, I read:
Dear Readers,
The best part of the journey is the beginning: the anticipation, the planning, the ability to dream about and map out its greatest potential. With very little exception, everything is possible. Days are a blank slate, and only good moments can be envisioned.
It’s at the beginning of my trips that my Bullet Journal gets the most use. I fill pages with scribbles and wannabe self-taught calligraphy, with inspirational quotes like “Be in the moment” and “Face to the sun.” Tiny doodles of flowers, arrows, and hearts trail across the pages in different thicknesses and textures from gel pens and markers. The optimism shines like the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge through the Northern California fog. Unstoppable. These journals are the inspiration and the launchpad for this blog, where I’m free to wax poetic and make a living at the same time. Best job ever.
Yet rarely do my journals show the middle of my journey, where the road muddles and detours and sometimes ends, nor do they depict the shuddering realization that I’ve accidentally taken a wrong turn. These pages don’t reflect my moments of despair, my decisions to turn around, or my panic-driven desire to head back to the starting point, back to my Pollyanna attitude.
And they sure don’t tell me what my next step should be.
It took me a while to get back to this space because the path I thought was true, what I thought was my future, came to a dead end. Coming back here would have meant that I had to face that reality. I feared your disappointment. I feared my disappointment.
It took weeks, but now I know the path was supposed to come this way. That I was meant to go the long way around before I moved forward. Otherwise, I would have missed the view, the lessons.
I would have not met the love that would support and heal me.
I’m back, for good, dearest readers. Look to this space for more food and travel and fun. But to do this, I’m first going to have to walk away from something, and maybe one day, you’ll get the reunion story—the right story—I’m dreaming to share.
Wish me luck!
Always,
Victoria
Walk away?
“She’s walking away?” My knuckles are white from gripping the sides of the iPad. “From the job?”
“Hello? Are you reading what I’m reading?” Jocelyn taps on the iPad. “Are you that? Are you that love, brother?”
“I-I don’t know.” And yet, I do. “I mean, yes. But she’s walking away.”
“Did she know you were doing the same thing, too?”
Make love to me, Victoria.
My heart lurches in my chest as I scan the blog post for the time she wrote it, though the glare of the damn sun is giving me trouble. I jog to the driver’s seat of the U-Haul and get in for shade. “She posted after midnight. And I’m sure she’s already received my package and note.”
My sister laughs. “A show with no host? Oh, boy.”
But it’s more than that. I walked away because I thought it was the right thing to do, and she did the same thing.
I dig my phone from my backpack in the passenger seat of the U-Haul. I’d kept the ringer off while I loaded up the truck this morning and, admittedly, to avoid inevitable phone calls from the network. It’s buzzing when I lift it from the backpack. Tara. I press ignore, not wanting to waste time. I have to go back to the campground, to San Diego if I have to with this U-Haul, and beg for Victoria to be with me.
“I’ve got to go, Joc.” I shut the door, buckle myself in. My sister is at the truck window, and I hand her the iPad. “I might be able to catch them before they leave the campground.”
My sister goes on her tiptoes and pulls me by the shirt, forcing my head out of the window. She plants her lips on my forehead. “I’m so proud of you. Don’t fuck this up.”
“I won’t,” I say, turning the key. I can’t.
The truck roars to life. I click my left-turn signal, look at my left-side mirror, and make a U-turn. I am heading down the long main road through town when I see a dark outline materialize in the waves of heat. It’s like a monster coming through the mist, gargantuan and loud, with two beaming eyes of light.
It’s a large vehicle with a groaning engine, slightly tilted to one side.
An RV with its lights on.
Is that?
No.
Yes.
Heart bursting through my chest and my stomach in knots, I pull over into the next available space, turn off the engine, and jump out of the truck. I sprint across the road and wave the RV down. God, I hope it’s our RV; otherwise, I will be fucked on this road.
The RV lights flash, and I throw my arm across my face, though I peek from the underside.
It stops without pulling over to the side. The door opens, and Victoria steps down. A hand still on the door, she stares at me for what feels like minutes. “Hey. Where’re you going?”
“To try to find you.” My voice croaks, taken by the sight of her. It’s out of a fucking dream. “I saw your blog post.”
“You did . . . Well, I have a bone to pick with you.” She walks toward me, her serious face locking me in place. “I got your package. You forgot to put in a movie in there. Pretty Woman.”
I shake my head, confused. “I did?”
“Yeah, and I realized that it’s because we never discussed it.” She stops about a foot away, her face still unreadable. “Because you wouldn’t have left if you understood how I feel about loving and leaving.”
My heart pounds in my throat. “How do you feel about loving and leaving?”
“That it should be a joint decision. And I haven’t weighed in on this. It’s a no.” Tears brim on her lower lids. “You can’t leave without me.”
I fall on my knees and wrap my arms around her waist. I bury my face in her shirt. I’ve only known being left, my heart stalled for years, and Victoria has come back despite all that. She’s choosing me. “I love you, Victoria. I thought the only way through this was to let you go. If you can forgive me, I will never leave you again.”
She runs her fingers through my hair; she lifts my face by the chin. Then she gets on her knees, too. “There’s nothing to forgive—I know why you did it. Because I love you, too, and I didn’t want to hold you back either.”
“So what now?”
“I guess there’s no choice but to move forward together.”
I kiss her deeply, feeling the vibrations of her soft cries on my lips. My body molds into hers, and the tears that I kept at bay flow. They mix with hers and turn all the mistrust and pain of the past into something that was meant to be.
Had all the worst things not happened, then right now would have never been possible.
Setting a New Course
* * *
EDWARD LEWIS: So what happens after he climbs up and rescues her?
VIVIAN WARD: She rescues him right back.
—Pretty Woman
Epilogue
VICTORIA
The loan officer hands us a set of keys and a black folder stuffed with paper. In my hands, the keys jingle and shine, holding so much promise and possibility. I finger the largest one in the stack, familiar and comforting.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Mr. Kanecky asks. The mustache on his face wiggles as a smile spreads across his lips. “We’ve got an entire lot of new ones and more modern used ones that could suit your purpose.”
Joel turns to me. We shake our heads at the same time.
With an intake of breath, Mr. Kanecky stands. “I wish you two luck. Let me help you get your things loaded up.”
Joel and I each sling a duffel bag over our shoulder and grab a backpack off the floor. Mr. Kaneck
y lifts a bag with my gear, and an assistant hoists a hard box of tools. The four of us trudge through the showroom and then out to the rear, to a parking lot of rows and rows of motorhomes and travel trailers lined up like vines in a vineyard.
Ours is front and center.
An RV, our RV, is almost exactly the way we left her a month ago, still worse for wear, slightly tilted. But instead of the trepidation I felt when I first met her, my heart now soars. I drop my things and rush to the vehicle and spread my arms against the front hood.
Mr. Kanecky rattles off a list. “We replaced all the tires for you, went through the necessary checks. Put in a satellite TV and radio. Replaced the locks so the drawers won’t fly open, and changed out the floors.”
“She’s perfect,” I say, and walk around her, taking in the round rubber of the tires that should last us more than a few miles. I jump into the rig where I inspect everything they improved, and in the silence, I take a deep breath.
This is where it all began, and this is where we will continue our journey. After showing up late in San Diego and hosting one last segment, we returned to each of our families to announce our entrepreneurial adventure: See You Later: Full-Time RV’ing with Vic & Joel. We’re going to broadcast how to live and survive on the road, especially how to eat healthy in spite of a mobile lifestyle. My blog is ready to incorporate “thirty-minute RV meals,” and we plan to feature the roadside restaurants we eat in. And after a series of lectures from each of our family members about the dangers of living on the road, of jumping into this relationship too quickly, they sent us off with their blessings.
Then we worked to get our RV back.
It was easier than we thought. With a promise to advertise Campingheaven World on our newly established YouTube channel, Mr. Kanecky was more than happy to negotiate. And while Joel took Seth on his promised weeklong camping trip through Yosemite, I revamped my blog and prepped for our full-time mobile adventure.
