“She didn’t need her car at school, and her parents didn’t want it taking up room in the driveway, so they rented a garage.” There’s a long pause. “They found it on Craigslist.”
“Thanks,” I say, making a mental note to hit the website after dinner.
“See? You kind of need me.” Brooke doesn’t turn around, but I think I hear smug satisfaction in her voice. Until she looks over her shoulder wearing a disheartened half smile, and there isn’t a trace of smugness in her expression. She just looks sad.
“Hey, what were you humming earlier?”
She thinks about it for half a second. “Coldplay.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and do some speedy research. “Munich? In two thousand two? Looks like a small club.”
Her head whips around and she lets out a squeal. “Really?” she asks. Her hands are clenched into fists by her sides, and when I nod, she dances back and forth in place. She turns the dial on the stove so the blue flame disappears underneath the burner and looks around the kitchen. “Mom and Dad are going to be so pissed when they come home to this mess.”
“Yeah, but they’ll never remember it.”
“We are a happy family.”
“Trust me,” I say as I navigate over to the club’s website, “That’s only because they’re so glad you’re back home, they’ve temporarily forgotten that they’re furious at me for losing you in the first place. As soon as you’re back at school, the three of us will be our usual bickering selves again.” I click around until I find an interior view, and I pan and zoom on the best photo I can find. I have no way of knowing if it looked like this back in 2002, but chances are, even if they’ve done a remodel or two, the bathrooms are still in the same spot.
“Okay, we’re set.” I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave and by the time I turn around again, Brooke’s standing in front of me, arms extended.
She looks down, assessing her outfit. “Am I good?” she asks, referring to her jeans, a plain-looking shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. I’m not so sure about flip-flops in March, but I don’t want to waste time waiting for her to pick something else.
“Yeah. You’re good.” As soon as I take her hands, she grips mine hard and gives her arms a nervous shake like she always does. Then she squeezes her eyes shut.
I close mine, and we’re gone.
On Wednesday afternoon, I pack up the Jeep with all my camping and climbing equipment, and then do one last check of the stuff that actually matters. The white plastic container is sitting on the front seat, and inside I’ve stored everything I’ll need when I return: a dozen plastic bottles of water, a Starbucks Doubleshot, and a Red Bull six-pack.
The music’s on loud and I’m so lost in my thoughts, I jump when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I slam the cover closed and flip around to find Mom with her hand over her mouth, looking amused. “Sorry!” She yells so she can be heard over the music. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay. Hold on.” I lean in through the open window to turn down the volume.
“How’s the packing going?” She glances from the hood of the car to the back cargo area, now filled to the brim with camping gear and colorful ropes. The soft top is already off and secured in place.
“Fine. I think I have everything.”
“Good…that’s good.” She stands there, nodding and smiling, like she’s gathering the nerve to say something else. She distributes her weight onto both feet and roots herself in place.
“What?” The tone of my voice makes it pretty clear that I don’t really want to know.
“Is there any chance I can get you to change your mind about this camping trip?” She folds her arms across her chest. “It’s just that…Brooke is going back to Boulder this weekend and then you’ll be starting your senior year, and these are the last few days we have together as a family.”
I want to tell her that we’ve had a whole summer and we haven’t done anything “together as a family” with a single second of it. I’m not sure what makes her think this is the week to start, other than the fact that I’m leaving town and she doesn’t want me to.
“It’ll be fine, Mom. I want to go climbing with my friends,” I say, smashing my sleeping bag deep into the back of the Jeep so it won’t blow away when I start driving. “It’s only for a few days. I’ll be back by Friday.” That part’s true, so I turn around when I say it.
“You won’t have
“Probably not. You know how it is out there. You can try, but it’s really spotty.” Yeah. Mainly because my cell phone will be in the glove compartment of the Jeep, locked in a clown-car-sized garage I found on Craigslist yesterday.
“Bennett?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not traveling, are you?” she asks, her forehead creased.
I freeze, then force my expression to look relaxed. “You told me
“Yes. I did.”
I shrug and look straight into her eyes. “And that’s why I’m packing up my car to go camping.” Is that a lie? Technically it’s not, but I’m pretty sure Mom wouldn’t see it the same way. She stares at me and I wait. I don’t know if I just said the right thing or the wrong thing, or something so in between the two that she can’t quite figure out what to do with it.
She looks worried and, God, I wish she wouldn’t be. If only she’d relax and trust that I have this whole thing under control, I could tell her
“Be careful, okay?”
“I always am.” I kiss her on the cheek. “You worry too much, Mom.” I want to say more, but I don’t.
I can tell from the look on her face that she has a lot more to say too, but instead, she just gives me a somber-looking smile and says, “You make it pretty hard not to, sweetie,” and leaves it at that.
August 1995
3
Evanston, Illinois
When I push the door open, the little cluster of bells bangs against the glass and a guy standing over at the New in Paperback table turns around and gives me a quick glance. I step inside and look around. I’ve never seen the bookstore so crowded.
I walk down the main aisle, looking for Anna between the bookshelves. I’m halfway through the store when I see her behind the counter. She’s ringing up a customer, so I keep a bit of a distance and wait, and try to ignore my heart smacking against my rib cage.
Her hair is longer than I remember it, and it occurs to me that every time I saw her in La Paz over the summer she was wearing it up in a clip or a ponytail. It’s even curlier now, and I feel the familiar urge to pull on one of those strands so I can watch it spring back into place. What’s different about her? She looks tanned and happy and…somehow even more beautiful than before.
