Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

I walked around to the back and saw Roger, feet dangling, sunglasses on, even though it was cloudy. And I felt something within me shift. It was the same way I’d felt when I’d proposed we go to Yosemite. The way I’d felt when I’d run to the Jeep and gotten behind the wheel. The feeling right before I threw my leg over the window and tumbled into the room at Promises Kept. The feeling that I was about to do something without being sure of the outcome. The feeling of just jumping off something and hoping that the ground would be there when I landed.

I sat next to Roger in the back, setting the big Styrofoam cups to the side, near the wheel well.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at me, pulling off his sunglasses. “Did you get me something good?”

“I think so,” I said, trying to ignore how hard my heart was beating. Then, before I could think about it, or analyze, or consider what I was doing, I leaned over and kissed him.

Country roads, take me home to the place I belong.

—John Denver

He kissed me back. For just a moment, but he kissed me back, as though it was an automatic response, as though we had been kissing for a long time. But then he pulled away and looked at me. “Amy,” he said softly. He’d never said my name that way before, and even though he’d pulled back, it was the answer that I needed. He touched my face, tracing his hand down my cheek and cupping it under my chin. “I’m not sure …”

But I was. And I leaned over and kissed him again. And this time he really kissed me back, moving his hand from under my chin to my hair, and then down my back, and then under my chin again. And we were kissing like drowning people breathe—like suddenly we’d discovered something that has never been so sweet before that moment.

And as we slowed for just a breath, to a kiss that was sweeter and more lingering, I understood in a flash why, on the Greyhound sign, Arrivals and Departures were right next to each other. Because sometimes, like in that moment, they can mean exactly the same thing.

“God,” he murmured into my hair when we broke away. It might have been ten minutes. It might have been an hour. I was past the point of being able to judge such things. He smoothed down my hair. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

“Really?” I asked, almost afraid to believe this.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Since Kansas. At least.”

“Blizzard?” I asked, handing him his drink.

He took it, kissed me again, then took a sip. “Perfect,” he said, smiling at me. “Reese’s with a swirl?” I nodded. He smiled and took another sip, his hand resting on my knee.

I took a breath, leaned over, and kissed him again. This time he tasted like ice cream, and I could have stayed there forever, the taste of Roger’s kiss on my lips, whatever was going to happen stretching out before us like the paths of the highways—the road open, the routes endless.

And that’s when it started to rain.

Roger and I broke apart, and I looked at the sky, which had darkened rapidly, and showed signs of getting worse. We were starting to get rained on, sitting in the back, and we jumped up, and Roger slammed the door. We ran around to the front seats and closed the doors just as the sky opened up and started pouring down water on us. “Wow,” I said, looking out at it.

“I know,” Roger said. He reached across his seat to rest his hand on my knee, and I felt my heart begin to pound, still not quite able to believe this was happening. “So I guess we should get going?” he asked.

I stared out at the parking lot, which was now nearly deserted. The DQ employee had pulled his sweatshirt hood over his cap. “I guess so,” I said. I brushed my wet hair away from my face. It hit me that we were almost out of time together—that the trip was ending just when things were beginning. But I didn’t see anything we could do about it.

Roger touched my cheek for a moment. Then he started the car and we pulled out of the parking lot.

Maybe this time with all this much to lose and all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world.

—William Faulkner

The rain had gotten worse by the time we’d reached Maryland. I had never experienced a sudden thunderstorm like this—not in the summer—but maybe they were common on the East Coast. I’d have to learn a whole new set of weather norms. It also occurred to me that I’d have winter for the first time too. I might even see snow.

But the rain was just hammering the car. Roger had the wipers turned up to full speed, and his headlights on, and still I could barely see the lines on the road in front of us.

“This is bad,” I said, handing him his glasses.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling without taking his eyes off the road and putting them on. He squinted out the windshield. “I keep hoping it’s going to let up, but that doesn’t seem to be happening.”

I looked to the food/gas/lodging signs on the side of the highway. It looked like we were going to hit a biggish town soon. And there were at least three hotels listed on the lodging sign. “You know,” I said, careful not to look at him, feeling my cheeks heat up, “this really does seem like tough going.”

“I know,” Roger said, shaking his head.

“So maybe,” I said, speaking quickly, “we should get off the road before it gets too bad. Find a cheap place to stay for the night.”

Roger looked over at me, then back at the road, a smile forming on his lips. “Really?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“I am very sure,” I said, feeling myself smile as well.

“Can we afford it, though?”

“I think it’s possible,” I said. It would be barely possible, but doable. And if we did run out of gas, that’s what AAA was for. Roger looked over at me, and I nodded. He put on his turn signal and took the first exit.

After the Udells checked in, we headed to our room and opened the door with the key card. It was one of the least-nicest places we had stayed, but I didn’t care at all. The bed was king-size, and covered with what we had been assured by the front desk clerk was an authentic reproduction of a Pennsylvania Dutch quilt, from nearby Lancaster County. But I knew, and I was sure Roger knew, that the fact that there was just one bed meant something very different than it had before.

“I’m going to take a quick bath,” I said, trying to defuse the tension I suddenly felt in the room. “I feel like I haven’t had one in about a year.”