I leaned back against my pillows, as answers rushed at me. Maybe I needed to witness my dad pest-controlling Grace. Maybe that was the only way I could see the effect of all my boy control techniques on guys. Maybe I was meant to fall for Quattro, a guy on a strict no-girl diet, just so I’d know how it felt to be pest-controlled myself. Who knew?
What I did know for sure was that I had let Quattro go because I was afraid to fight for him.
What was the purpose of living in a safe, secluded, impenetrable bubble of one?
Girls! I could easily imagine Grace tipping her head to yell up at the sky. Girls! That doesn’t sound like living.
No, it didn’t.
Neither Stesha nor Grace would ever have allowed real love to fall through the cracks. I wouldn’t either.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Some people might call it stalking, others sleuthing. I had the sneaking suspicion that Grace and Stesha would have named it search and rescue. But for me, I was seeking. Forty-five minutes after looking for Quattro, I finally remembered that I had blocked his e-mail, which meant I’d had his address all this time. Before I could chicken out, I composed a message, which I rewrote. Then rewrote again. It’s amazing how much time it took to choose fifty-six words.
Hey, Quattro,
Did you and your dad get home OK? I hope so, but let me know. Plus, I’ve got your camera and need to get it back to you. I think I owe you at least a dozen bacon maple bars. Maybe two. Let me know when you want to collect. I miss you.
xome
Hitting Send only led to an endless cycle of second-guessing: The “xo” might have been okay by itself, but why did I have to add the “I miss you”? I studied the shadows on my ceiling, kicking myself for tipping my hand too much. I should have kept it to a casual, hey-buddy “Miss ya!” But I knew I wanted to signal that I girlfriend-cared about him, not friend-cared.
Finally, I gave up on trying to sleep and spent two hours sketching the storyboard for the video and drafting what I wanted to say in only ninety seconds. By the time I finished with that, it was almost one, and I should have gone to sleep. Call me compulsive, but I thought I might as well drop in the images and footage that I had shot. At three, I yawned and finally pressed Save.
At last, I slid the computer off to the side on my bed, too tired to place it on my nightstand or set it on the floor. Even after I switched off the light, images played in my mind, not the ones I’d used in the video—the shots of the stark ruins and pristine mountains before the mudslide, the footage of the river bearing mammoth shards of concrete. But the ones of the people I’d traveled with, come to love, wanted to keep in my life.
Heart speeding, I pawed for the light switch even though no light could compete with my dawning epiphany. I finally understood what the admissions director at Cornish had asked me after viewing my portfolio: What knocks your heart open?
All around me, pinned to my bedroom walls, were my favorite photos of street fashion—all the crazy, unexpected, and truly bizarre outfits people assembled: sweater-vest coupled with skinny chinos and combat boots. But my photos had never been about fashion. They’d been about the personal statements people were making through fashion: Take it or leave it, but welcome to Me.
Forget sleep, I needed to look at the Truth of my journey to Machu Picchu, stripped of camouflage. I needed to look at the photos of what I had seen on the Inca Trail: Quattro, a guy who used humor to hide his broken heart as he waited for me on the trail. Christopher, a quiet man whose actions spoke loudly as he led Helen across the slippery bridge to safety. Stesha, who may have dressed like a lighthearted pixie but was more serious about life than anyone I’d ever met. Mom, who was a hopeless romantic but worked overtime at true love as she reached for Dad over and over again despite being rebuffed. And Dad, who was going blind but looked as if he had finally learned to see as he gazed down at Mom, boarding the flight to Belize.
And there was Grace, an old woman we had all written off as too feeble for the trip. Grace praying, head bowed in the cathedral. Grace lagging behind on the Inca Trail. Grace standing at the edge of the mud field. Grace kneeling beside a fallen Stesha. Grace helping to clear the railroad tracks. Grace standing triumphant atop a communal dining table, prosthetic leg finally revealed.
Maybe that was the heartbeat of my video, the one I wanted to make, not the one others thought I should. Maybe I didn’t want to document the tragedy of the mudslide but wanted to profile the triumph of Grace at every step.
That knocked my heart open.