Chapter1
Knox
Why is it that you have to damn near break your own heart to find yourself? I wish I knew the answer, and I wish I understood why my heart beats so hard in my chest, why the message it tattoos against my ribs is so insistent:go west, go west, go west.
It’s the only thing I think—the only thing I feel— these days.
“What about a local college, honey? Why do you have to move all the way across the country?” my mom asks, her eyes filling with tears as I load the last box into my car.
I close the trunk, then take her hands in mine, hoping she can feel how steady I am. How determined. “I think we both know that I don't belong here. I can't keep trying to be the square peg hoping to fit into the round hole.”
“Pretty sure you're the hole,” my father mutters under his breath. My mother doesn't hear him, but I damn sure do. It’s the only time he's ever overtly referenced my sexuality, and it’s his final shot across the bow.
Okay then.
I grip the keys to my old Honda Civic, older than I am, but it’ll drive well enough to get me out of this town. Among all the boxes and suitcases is a small prescription bottle full of my brother’s ashes. Momma doesn’t know I took them from his urn late last night.
She wouldn’t understand.
Well, maybe she’d understand the unrelenting grief that make life seem a little less real, but not the rest of it. I give her a tight hug, her tears wetting my T-shirt. I nod to my father, who stops me with a long look, filled with disappointment and maybe even a little sadness—I admit, I may be imagining that part—and returns my nod.
I open the driver-side door, the rusty squeak familiar and comforting. Starting the engine, I say goodbye to the life I once knew. An hour later, I pass the West Virginia State line, and the weight that’s always been there, looped around my ankle, pressing down on my chest, begins to loosen.
I don't have to be in California for another two months, and the plan is to take my time getting there. My loose itinerary is as follows: Nashville, Atlanta, Panama City, New Orleans, Austin, Las Cruces, Phoenix, The Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, Las Vegas, Joshua Tree, Los Angeles, and my final destination, Pasadena.
I decide to take the long way to Nashville, following the Cherokee National Forest. It feels good to start with a familiar place, where my family would go camping when Connor and I were little. My chest tightens as I watch the trees fly by. I brought my camping gear with me, so I could easily stay the night, but the rhythmic drumming of my heart keeps repeating,go west.
So, I zip past childhood memories and plow forward into new ones, into unfamiliar places and terrifying highway exchanges, the only time there’s a break in the numbness. After only two stops to piss, fill up the car, and eat the sandwiches my mother packed for me, I make it into Nashville.
I stop to take videos at the Parthenon, Music Row, and the Ryman Auditorium. I’ll edit everything at some point, but for now, I decide to simply upload the raw video onto my account. My mom comments on it thirty seconds later.
Glad to see you made it safely. Make sure to check your tires before you leave tomorrow.
Pretty sure my father told her to say that last part.
I check into my hotel and text my mother, letting her know I'm in for the night. A small lie.
I put on my royal-blue with pink polka-dots button-down and carefully style my hair. Looking in the mirror, it’s still not quite right, so I cuff my jeans and curse the fact that my tennis shoes are scuffed, the black canvas a little faded. I need a watch to finish off the look, but this is as close as I’ve ever come to feeling comfortable in my own skin.
Tootsies Orchard Lounge is just a few blocks from where I'm staying, so I take a deep breath and walk out into the early evening. As my feet hit the sidewalk, my heart starts to pound under the bright lights of downtown Nashville.
I’ve got another year before I can drink legally, so the large man at the door puts a big X on the back of my hand. The chemical smell of the ink reminds me of sitting around the kitchen table with Mom, making signs for Connor’s football games.
The bar is shadowy and smaller than I’d imagined, layered in years of beer and talent. I find a dark corner and listen as baby singers stretch their wings for the first time, and it feels like freedom.
“You new in town?”
I grip my ice water and turn to find the owner of the very smooth, very male voice behind me. He was one of the night’s earlier singers, a young guy with the same X on the back of his hand.
“Just staying the night, maybe two.” My heart flutters in my chest.
“Nice to meet you.” He’s wearing a rainbow bracelet, one of those rubber ones that you get for supporting a cause.
We talk for a while, and just as I’m about to defend my answer to the question of whether or not a hotdog is a sandwich, he puts his hand on my arm. The warmth is a shock to my system.
“Would you like to get out of here?”
I ball up my napkin and nod. I'm not a virgin, having topped all of two times. I think for a second that maybe I can ask this guy to fuck me, but then balk, the way I imagine a person who's afraid of heights stops before looking over the edge of the Grand Canyon.
