11
VICTORIA
The journey from Sacramento northwest to Desert Willow was supposed to take about seven hours. Our group of four had split off into two pairs, with Adrian and Tara in the Suburban, and Joel and I in the RV. I volunteered us to ride together, thinking it would be good to talk, to catch up, and maybe, to push aside the awkwardness between us.
Because, oh my stars, I wasn’t sure what to do with this surge of emotion, knowing that the man who raised the sexual bar for me was not going to stay in my past. And then finding out we’d be working together? My body and mind are on opposites sides of a boxing ring. I meant what I’d said in Vegas the day after our night together: Joel was a good guy. He wasn’t a jerk, and I liked him. But I also physically wanted this man. I yearned to re-create our night, but as a coworker and professional, it wasn’t logically sound. Or smart.
Joel and I had to get on the same page before we arrived at our first destination.
Yet, almost two hours into the trip, we’re still far from engaging in a serious conversation. Joel volunteered to drive, and as the copilot, I’m in charge of making sure the rest of the rig is safe. But our aging RV shakes with every turn. Every pothole and tiny rock on the ground jostles the vehicle. It is a box on wheels with flimsy locks and knobs. Cupboard doors fly open and drawers roll out at every small disturbance, and stuff slides across the floor. Joel’s duffel topples down from the overhead loft and lands on my neck while I try to fix the kitchenette table that refuses to stay up.
Joel’s doing the knee-jerk with the gas pedal, probably from inexperience driving a big vehicle, and the RV lurches and slows in succession. As we make our way up Highway 5 toward our campground at Shasta-Trinity National Forest, with the RV leading our two-vehicle caravan through the heavy, swift truck traffic, the engine sounds like it’s about to blow. I don’t look out my window to enjoy the view as I usually would when I’m on a road trip. Although we’re passing the natural beauty of Northern California, with the transitioning colors of the landscape, all I’m thinking of is how it’s going to be a mess if the RV breaks down.
Finally, after I think I’ve secured everything possible in the rig, I sit in the passenger seat and click on my seat belt. From the signs on the road, I know we’re south of Orland. I peek through the side mirror. “I don’t see the Suburban. Maybe we should slow down?”
Joel grumbles, though he eases on the pedal. He has yet to say anything substantial to me, and I wonder if it’s not only because I’ve been kept busy in the back.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
My eyebrows scrunch down. “You know, answering a question with another question doesn’t get us any closer to an answer.”
More silence. He turns the radio on and spins the knob through static until the clashing sound of guitars comes on.
I guffaw. “Metallica?”
“Something wrong with Metallica? ‘Nothing Else Matters’ is their best song. It came out it 1991.”
“Um . . .” I hedge on how to tell him that I hate eighties and nineties big hair bands. Instead, I spin the dial, and come upon . . . “Baby One More Time. Britney.” Still nineties, but pop, at least.
His hand pushes mine aside, and he turns it back to Metallica.
I turn it back to Britney.
He presses the button to turn the radio off.
I turn it back on, though I keep the volume low. “Ok, what the hell? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t feel like listening to music.”
I exhale audibly for his benefit, but seeing him white-knuckle the steering wheel as a set of cars tries to merge around us, I don’t push. His current mood must be because he’s trying to focus. So I pop my earbuds in, tap on my music app, and breathe as Chopin’s “Piano Concerto No. 2” plays. Immediately, my curiosity dissipates, and the orchestra in my ears becomes the perfect soundtrack to the passing view.
I settle into my seat and slide my Barbecue Beginnings book out of the backpack at my feet. From my periphery, I see Joel shake his head.
I pull an earbud out. “What?” I follow his gaze to my book. “This? It’s called professional development. Research.”
Barbecue is so much more complicated than I’d anticipated. In my limited experience at backyard barbecues and the occasional festival I’d attended where I actually ordered barbecue—because there are a million other options at food festivals—I thought it was simply meat that’s been smoked for hours, with sauce dredged on it before being served with sides.
Sides, after all, are the best part of meals. Let’s really dig into the mac and cheese, the greens, the coleslaw, the baked beans. Let’s evaluate the details of the perfect pickle, the best kind of roll to use for sliders.
But the meat? Meat is meat, and the sauces are terrible.
In my opinion.
I read through much-needed vocabulary so that I’ll survive the next eight days: black and blue, firebricks, hot guts—dear God.
“I can’t believe you hate barbecue.”
“I can’t believe people love it.” A snort escapes my lips. “It’s sauce on meat. Seasoned meat that was thrown in a smoker. It doesn’t take skill.”
“Are you this rude with your online reviews?”
I scrunch my nose, shocked at this comeback. There’s not a hint of gentleness in his tone, definitely not like the man who brought me coffee and kissed me sweetly before we’d left each other. “I’m not rude. Just telling the truth.”
“Who knew? Victoria Aquino. Cutthroat.”
Stunned, I suck in a breath, and a proper retort doesn’t materialize in my brain. “What is that supposed to mean?”
A voice whistles out along with static from our handheld radio, interrupting us. Tara. “I need a break.”
Joel brings the radio to his lips and presses the button. “Got it. Out.”
“Joel,” I protest. “You’ve got to clue me in here. The last time we were together,” I stumble through my thoughts, “I thought . . . we were okay, that we were friends. I mean—”
He clicks on the blinker and gazes over to my right, to the side mirror, a sigh escaping his lips. “We are . . . friends, okay? I’m just doing my job at the moment. Driving you to your destination so I can be your cameraman once again.”
Joel’s words are harsh, curt, and confusing. It shuts me up as he drives the RV to a rest stop exit, pulling into the first parking spot. He turns off the engine and hops out, shutting the door and leaving me on my own.
What the hell? What did I do?
Even if I don’t particularly need to go to the bathroom, I get out and breathe in the fresh air. Well, sort of fresh, because the parking lot smells like gas and the lemon disinfectant from the bathrooms. Up ahead, Tara is jogging to the bathroom while Adrian halts at the edge of the grass and lights up a cigarette.
And then there’s Joel, who is walking up the path.
He must have forgotten that he’s dealing with an Aquino, and determined is my middle name. I hustle to his side. At the sight of me, his face falls. Now that we’re no longer on the road, I can’t attribute this reaction to the stress of the drive, and my stomach plummets at the thought that maybe this has everything to do with us sleeping together. That he regrets it, though I don’t.
Not that I was looking for anything whatsoever. I’m an adult who knew what the consequences were. But regret over that night? I don’t have an iota of it. Or, I didn’t.
“Can we talk, seriously?” My voice comes out sounding eager, and I wince at my inability to be chill.
He makes no move to slow down. “I’ve really got to piss.”
Grasping at straws, a bumble of words plops out. “But we should discuss us. I mean, previous us. I’m detecting a little weirdness, and I don’t like it.”
We stop at the entrance to the rest stop building and the automatic glass door opens in front of us. “I . . . there isn’t anything to talk about, you know?”
I peer at him, taking in the tone of that last sentence. Was he being sincere, that I shouldn’t worry? Or is the truth that he considers our sexcapade inconsequential? But before I can ask, he cuts to the left, following the signs to the men’s bathroom.
I’m still mulling over his words when I enter the amazingly clean rest stop restroom. After I do my business, I wash my hands, hearing the furthest toilet from me flush. Tara strolls out and pumps the canister of soap while I pull brown paper towels from the dispenser.
“Seen the redwoods before?” She readjusts her neck scarf and tightens the knot.
“I have. We’ve been to every national forest in California.”
She sighs with relief. “Can I just say I’m so glad you’re here? Don’t let my outfit fool you—I have no experience camping, so I’m going to need all the help I can get. Are you good with navigating the next leg?”
I smile at her honesty. “Of course.”
“We’re only three hours away from camp. Then we’ll hit Desert Willow as soon as the festival opens tomorrow.” She rubs her hands with a towel feverishly. “How are things with Joel?”
Her tone piques my interest. “What do you mean?”
Her shoulders slump. “You guys haven’t talked about it yet.”
I shake my head, dread rising in my chest.
She tosses her paper towel into the trash. “Ugh. Okay. But I don’t want you to freak out.”
“Tell me.”
“Joel auditioned for your job. When we hired you, we didn’t know there was a connection between you both. Do you think it will be a problem?”
My mind screeches to a halt. And then it all makes sense—his cold demeanor, the way he can’t look me in the face. I say the first thing that comes to mind, with a practiced smile I save for the camera, on my worst days when I don’t want to vlog. “We’re both professionals. We’ll talk about it. It’ll be fine.”
“Well, that’s good, because we have a long road ahead.” Using her elbows, she opens the restroom door.
A lump forms in my throat as I follow her out. This was the “loose end” he talked about the day we said goodbye.
How am I going to fix this? I mean, obviously I can’t fix this, but I have to try.
We meet Adrian in front of the snack machines. He has three packages of donut holes in his hands. Joel is pressing the buttons of a coffee machine as it spits out a cup and fills it with what looks like hot chocolate, so I get in line behind him.
“You get to be my copilot next.” I ease into some small talk. “Get ready because while I’m great at driving a big vehicle, I’ve got a crap sense of direction.”
“Well, damn. That’s another thing you should have thought of before you jumped into this.” He picks up his cup and dips his nose into it as he heads back down the sidewalk to the RV, leaving me trailing behind.
My cheeks flame as anger whips through me. I take it back. What a jerk.
I shove coins into the machine and jam my thumbs at the buttons and curse under my breath. I watch the machine make coffee, but it takes forever and a day. Finally, cup in hand, I stride after him, coffee sloshing as I try to keep up. Half my cup has spilled out by the time I heft myself into the cab of the RV. Eyes stinging with frustration, I set the coffee cup in the holder and attempt to ignore the man sitting next to me, with his seat belt already buckled, typing the address into the GPS. After he secures it in the holder, he turns it on, the robotic voice chipper when it starts to give me directions.
Thank God for it and the loud engine of the RV. It leaves me with no reason to say a word.
Because if I do, I know I’m going to cry.
I’m not a baby. It’s not that. It’s because I’m so pissed off—at myself.
My expectations were way too high. Just as my naïveté once brought me to heartbreak, my assumption that what happened between Joel and me forged some kind of a bond is 100 percent wrong. He meant it when he said there would be no regrets, because as far as he’s concerned, nothing happened between us. I wasn’t thinking we would take our relationship beyond our night in Vegas, but was a little civility too much to expect?
Now that I know he wanted this job, it becomes astoundingly clear that my initial relief in knowing someone on this trip was an error. I’m on my own.