It takes a few hours to cross the first state border. The sights amaze me because somehow I never realized how ginormous the world really is. There’s so much earth everywhere. It’s like all the people migrated to these pockets of lights and noise, and they left all these miles and miles of nature completely untouched.
We keep our phones on speaker when we’re driving, so it sort of feels like we’re driving together. We play our game. We listen to Wilco, and The Smiths, and lots of other bands I’ve never heard of. We stop for lunch. Jamie laughs at how I go exactly the speed limit and not one mile per hour over.
We pull in for the night at a small motel in the middle of nowhere. We ask for a room with two beds. I try to pay for half of the cost, but Jamie keeps pushing my hand away. When he’s in the shower, I sneak the money into his suitcase. When I wake up in the morning, it’s back in mine.
We cross another state border. And another.
Jamie says we’ll be in California by the next evening. We find another motel, but this time when we ask for two beds, the man at the front desk shakes his head.
“Sorry, we’ve only got queen rooms left.” He taps his finger against the mouse button. He knows we’ll take it anyway—it would take a while to find another motel.
I shrug at Jamie. “It’s fine.”
I try to pay again, but he won’t let me.
When we’re in the room, I set my bag at the foot of the bed and twist my hair.
“I want to pay,” I insist. “I can’t let you pay for everything. It isn’t fair.”
“I would have had to pay for these rooms anyway. Taking your money would make me feel like I was trying to get you to pay for half of my trip,” he says. “Besides, you need your money for art school.”
It doesn’t make me feel better. “No. I want to pay. Please. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone.” My cheeks burn. I still have the money in my hand.
“It’s not being a burden. Let me do something nice. What’s the big deal?”
“I don’t want to owe you more than I already do,” I manage to say.
My words don’t sit well with him—he looks like I’ve said something hurtful.
But he doesn’t understand. I’m already going to California because it’s easier to be with Jamie than to be alone. I couldn’t have gotten this far if he wasn’t here with me—if he wasn’t letting me stay with him and his family. It doesn’t feel right to accept his money, too.
I know he’s not Mom—I know he wouldn’t hold it over me for the rest of my life. But he’s already doing me a bigger favor than he realizes. And people run out of favors eventually.
I don’t ever want Jamie to regret letting me follow him to California.
He takes the money. “Just so we’re clear, you are not a burden, and you don’t owe me anything. You never have.”
By the time we shower and crawl into bed, I have ice in my lungs from my short, quick inhales that refuse to calm down. I’m worried he’s mad. I’m worried I’ve offended him. Why is it so hard to have a disagreement with someone that doesn’t mean anything? Do all disagreements have to mean something? How do people ever say no without fighting?
Oh my God, are Jamie and I fighting?
Jamie rolls over so he’s facing me. “Hey,” he whispers, like he can read my mind.
I roll toward him. Both of us are on our side, looking at each other in the darkness. I’ve been close to Jamie when he hugged me, but this feels even closer. It feels intimate.
He pauses. “What’s going on in your head right now?”
I fight to keep my shoulders from shaking. I can’t help how fast my heart is beating—when the anxiety starts, I can’t stop it. It has to run its course.
“I feel bad that we’re arguing on our second day together.”
“That wasn’t an argument, Kiko.”
“It feels like it.”
“It was a minor disagreement, maybe. But nothing serious enough for you to be having a panic attack.”
I know he’s right. Of course he’s right. But that doesn’t mean I can just reprogram the way my emotions work. Fixing me isn’t like fixing a loose screw or a little bit of rust. I’m like a giant mess of problems, all linked together and tracing back to my childhood. Back to when things got so complicated.
“Does it feel like a big deal to you? When we don’t agree on something?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Why?”
I think carefully.
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“Because disagreeing with my mom is the reason she doesn’t like me. I don’t want it to be the reason you don’t like me either.”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
“I can’t really tell when people are mad at me.”
“It’s okay to say no to people, Kiko. Everyone does it. And trust me, they don’t feel bad about it. Do you think I would have felt bad if you had kept your money? Or if you had let me keep that first picture of you at the fair?” He props his head up with the heel of his hand.
I keep my head flat against the pillow because I still feel dizzy. “I guess not.”
He raises his brow. “You know, if someone is going to be mad at you just because you didn’t let them have their way, you’re better off without them.”
My breathing slows. The ice in my throat begins to thaw.
He watches me quietly, his breathing quick. It doesn’t matter that it’s dark—I can still see his jaw clench and his lips twitch. “Why did you call yourself a burden?”
I pinch my fingers together nervously, but I can’t find the words to explain myself.
“You’re the opposite of a burden.” He sighs. “I wouldn’t do something nice and have there be strings attached to it. Especially not with you.”
I nod. I feel like I should thank him for being so nice to me. But then I feel embarrassed that “nice” feels like such a foreign concept.
“I’ve never been around someone who”—he pauses—“reacts the way you do. You didn’t used to be like this.”
I know he isn’t finished talking, but I can’t stop myself. “Things were easier when we were kids. The scariest things we had to worry about were nightmares and horror films. It’s different now.”
He’s quiet. “What are you so afraid of?”
People. Uncle Max. The truth. Never really being loved. Disappointing everyone. Disappointing myself. Feeling guilty for the rest of my life.
“Not doing the right thing, I guess,” I say at last. “It always seems like the only way to keep everyone else happy is to do something that makes me unhappy. I don’t know how to grow out of that.”
“Maybe you don’t have to try so hard. Maybe you’ll grow out of it without noticing,” he says.
I tilt my face toward the ceiling. “Maybe,” is all I say.
“Can we make a deal?” he asks in the darkness. “I’ll try to be more patient with your anxiety, and you try not to overthink everything.”
“That’s fair,” I say.
“And about what I was saying before—about the way you react. Even though I find it frustrating, it’s still a million times better than not having you in my life.”
I don’t say anything, but I don’t need to. Jamie’s hand finds mine beneath the blanket. He curls his fingers over mine. It feels like holding my hand next to a campfire. Warm. Cozy. Peaceful. It’s how I think home should feel.
I don’t pull my hand away. I just fall asleep.
? ? ?
I dream we wake up, still holding hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY