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.