Thomas’s hangover and the afternoon work call he has to get home for make him practically kick me out of the car as we pull up to Theo’s. However, he manages to leave me with some parting words.
“Have a good time, kid,” he croaks out. “Sadie and I have a bet on whether you let Theo stick it in. I say day three, she’s got day ten, but I owe her some blue velvet couch she wants if you fall in love with him.”
“Fucking hell, Mas.”
“Have fun.” His smile fades and he pulls off his sunglasses. “For real. I hope you find whatever you’re going after. I’ll be following along with the story.”
I wave him off with a lump in my throat. He yells out the window, “Wrap it if you tap it!” and zooms off, cackling.
“Such a jackass—” I turn and my knees collapse. Theo’s standing on the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers. “Jesus!”
He smirks. “？‘Wrap it if you tap it’？”
“I couldn’t even explain if I wanted to,” I say. “Which I don’t.”
He looks down at his phone, illuminating the screen. “You’re late.”
It’s 3:09. “We were supposed to leave at ten, so let’s not start that conversation.”
I wait for the long overdue apology, or an explanation, but Theo merely steps forward and takes the handle of my suitcase, brushing my hand aside. I block my senses to the fresh soap scent of him, that hint of firewood and vanilla. It’s the sweetness that gets me most; Theo is all spice, no sugar. Strange that he wears it on his skin.
“Give me your other bags so I can pack up the car. We’re leaving in five.” Tension buzzes off him like electricity. Whatever he had to do this morning, it wasn’t relaxing.
I let my backpack and camera bag slide off my shoulders, and he takes those, too, then walks toward the minivan he rented for the trip, parked in front of his house. I sigh. I’m still recovering from my disappointment when he told me we weren’t taking the Bronco.
Paul walks out of the house just then. “Good afternoon, Noelle! Ready for our adventure?”
“I can’t wait.” It’s ninety-nine percent true. The one percent is watching me, his expression unreadable.
“Shall we start the trip with a letter?” Paul pulls a slip of paper from the pocket of his khakis. My heart reaches through my ribs for that piece of Gram.
He hands it over. “Now, this one is out of order, so you’ll have to forgive me. It seemed like the right one for our trip kickoff.”
“I’m sure it’s perfect.”
I gingerly unfold the letter, struck again by the familiar loop of Gram’s handwriting.
There’s a sudden wall of heat behind me, the scent of Theo, his breath on my neck as we read together.
May 10, 1957
Good evening, my love,
Do you think I’m silly, writing this letter while you’re in the room with me? I have so many ideas and I want to write them down.
Now that we’ve decided to elope, here’s what we’ll do: get married as soon as the year is over and then go on our honeymoon road trip. Should we get a map today? I’ll show you all the places that sound most exciting, and you can tell me if I’m right or wrong （we both know I’ll be right）。
I’m dreaming about the beautiful photographs you’ll take. Ones we can hang in our home when we get back to LA. Maybe I’ll take some pictures of you—I’ll steal your camera when we leave the courthouse. The whole trip will be crooked landscapes and close-ups of your face.
You always call my face precious, but it’s yours that makes me happy. I am happy, even if it’s not the wedding I thought I’d have. I believe you when you tell me it will be okay. Just keep saying it so I don’t forget.
Yours forever,
Kat
By the time I finish, the words are dancing on the page. It’s bittersweet to be doing this in her place. Her hope was so palpable here. What took it away?
“Well.” I sniff, keeping my eyes pinned to the paper so neither of them can see my emotion, which is silly. My voice is threaded with it. “Good news: I’ll be fulfilling the role of crooked landscape photographer.”
“I doubt that,” Paul says gently.
I hand him back the letter, averting my gaze from Theo. He hasn’t said a word. Does he think I’m ridiculous? Or is it poignant for him, too?
When I chance a look at him, his gaze is penetrating, but not judgmental. Maybe it’s in accordance with our truce; I don’t know.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m going to use the restroom real quick.”
I escape to do my business, patting at my face with forty-ply toilet paper in the mirror after I’ve washed my hands. With a stern, silent look at mirror-me to get ahold of ourselves, I let out a breath. It starts shaky, but ends steadier.
I can do this. I want this. Most importantly, I need it.
The bathroom feeds into the kitchen, and as I step into it, there’s a rustling in the foyer. Fearing it’s Theo, I slow, running my hand along the counter.
The footsteps recede quickly, so I pick up my pace. My fingers brush against something, then snag on its weight. It takes me five full seconds to recognize what I’m looking at, but when it sinks in, my heart skips a beat.
Our senior yearbook. I look over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone, though this isn’t my secret to get caught with, then pull the book closer.
It flips to a page bookmarked with articles from our high school paper, as well as one from Glenlake’s. They’re tennis articles about Theo.
But also about me.
My heart beats fast. I shuffle through the slightly smudged paper, my eyes scanning the profile our paper did on me, and the one they did on Theo weeks later. I counted the words in each of our articles and was pissed to discover his had one hundred more.
Why did he keep this? And why is it out now?
The pleasure that pours through my veins like a serotonin jet stream isn’t just uncomfortable, it’s concerning. It’s bad enough that I’m curious about him. I can’t think about the possibility that he might be curious right back. Mutual attraction? Fine. But mutual interest? That can only end in disaster.
This trip isn’t about Theo and me. It’s about Gram. It’s about me. I have to squash this feeling.
I slam the book shut and put it back. I never touched it. Never saw it.
I’m absolutely going to forget it.
* * *
I don’t forget it.
Not when Paul insists he prefers the backseat, leaving me in front with Theo. Not when I find out Theo’s programmed his phone to the van’s Bluetooth, like a dog peeing on a tree. Nor when he reminds me as I’m covertly pushing buttons in an attempt to disconnect his phone, that we agreed to a truce and sabotaging his music isn’t very truce-like. Not even when we have to listen to his old, moody ‘90s playlist full of songs I either loathe or don’t know for the three-hour drive.
He was remembering me. He was remembering us, whatever us there used to be. What does it mean? There’s nothing I hate more than a question unanswered, especially when I can’t ask it.
I’m itchy and restless. Theo tosses me no less than forty irritated looks, though he stays contained in brooding silence. Paul is the MVP, wrapping me up in conversation until we pull up to our hulking cabin-style hotel in Groveland, forty minutes outside Yosemite Valley.