Gray eyes, blonde hair, although mine is the natural sandy shade while hers was colored to look more golden.
My darker eyebrows are my own, though. A small source of pride. I like how they make my eyes pop.
He inhales a deep breath. “Any more?” he asks, and I assume he’s talking about my luggage.
I shake my head.
“Okay, let’s hit the road.”
He leads the way toward the exit, and I follow closely behind, as we maneuver our way through the sparse crowd and outside.
As soon as we step into the sun, I inhale the thick late-August air, smelling the blacktop and the trees lining the parking lot beyond. The breeze tickles the hair on my arms, and even though the sky is cloudless and everything is green, I feel tempted to unwrap the jacket tied around my waist and put it on. We cross the walkway, barely needing to look for cars, because traffic is worse in line for the valet at my parents’ country club on a Sunday afternoon. I like it. No horns or woofers shaking the pavement.
He stops behind a black truck, but instead of popping down the tailgate, he just hauls my suitcase over the side and into the bed. Reaching back, he takes my other case and does the same.
I pick up my carry-on to help, but he quickly grabs that one, too, the tight cords in his arm flexing and shining in the sun.
“I should’ve traveled lighter,” I think out loud.
He turns. “It’s not just a visit.”
Yeah, maybe. I’m still not sure, but I thought it was best to bring enough for the long haul if I decided to stay.
We climb into the truck, and I put my seatbelt on as he starts the engine. On reflex, I reach for my headphones around my neck. But I stop. It would be rude to tune him out, having just met him. My parents never took issue, but they asked me not to wear them around others.
I release the headphones and stare at the radio instead. Please let music be playing.
And as soon as the truck rumbles to life, the radio lights up, playing “Kryptonite” loudly, and for a second, I’m relieved. Small talk hurts.
He pulls out of the parking lot, and I clasp my hands on my lap, turning my head out the window.
“So, I checked into it,” he says over the radio. “We have an online high school that can take care of you.”
I turn my eyes on him.
He explains, “We have a lot of kids here who are needed on the ranches and such, so it’s pretty common to homeschool or complete classes online.”
Oh.
I relax a little. For a moment, I thought he expected me to attend school. I had prepared myself for living in a new place, but not getting accustomed to new teachers and classmates. I barely knew the ones I’d been with for the past three years.
Either way, he needn’t have bothered. I took care of it.
“I can stay at Brynmor,” I tell him, turning my eyes back out the window. “My school in Connecticut was happy to work with my…absence. My teachers have already emailed my syllabi, and I’ll be able to complete everything online.”
The highway starts to give way to the sporadic homes along the side of the road, some 80’s-style ranches with rusty chain-link fences, bungalows, and even a Craftsman, all hugged by the dark needles of the tall evergreens around their yards.
“Good,” Jake says. “That’s good. Let them know, though, that you can be offline for spells as the WiFi at my place is spotty and completely goes out during storms. They might want to send your assignments in bulk, so you don’t get behind during that downtime.”
I look over at him, seeing him glance away from the road to meet my eyes. I nod.
“But who knows…” he muses. “You might just be running for the hills after a week up at the cabin.”
Because…？
He cocks his head, joking, “No malls or caramel macchiatos close by.”
I turn my eyes back out my window, mumbling. “I don’t drink caramel macchiatos.”
It’s reasonable for him to anticipate that maybe I won’t feel comfortable with them or that I’ll miss my “life” back home, but suggesting I’m a prima donna who can’t live without a Starbucks is kind of dicky. I guess we can thank TV for the rest of the world thinking California girls are all valley twits in tube tops, but with droughts, wildfires, earthquakes, mudslides, and one-fifth of the nation’s serial killings happening on our turf, we’re tough, too.
We drive for a while, and thankfully, he doesn’t talk more. The town appears ahead, and I can make out carved wooden statues and a main street of square buildings all attached to each other on both sides. People loiter on the sidewalks, talking to each other, while potted flowers hang from the light posts, giving the place a quaint, cared-for vibe. Teenagers sit on their tailgates where they’re parked on the curb, and I take in the businesses—everything mom and pop and nothing chain.