I must have taken a second too long to respond because Mom smiles at me. "Is he handsome like his father too?"
"Mom!"
"I’m only asking because your cheeks are a rosy shade of red. I’ve heard wonderful things about Brett. He grew up to be such a fine young man. You don’t need to worry about the shop."
Wonderful things.
"I’m just overwhelmed," I tell her. It’s the truth.
"Well, he’s here to help. Let him help, and maybe you’ll get a new friend out of the deal," Mom says, winking for good measure.
6
In my childhood bed,still decorated with a sunflower comforter and pink-lemonade sheets, I stared at the dusty ceiling fan making its slow rotations for hours, hoping I would be hypnotized to sleep, but the thoughts are endless. I read somewhere, the mind can only stress over four issues at one time before the body goes into fight-or-flight mode. I don’t know if I’m up to four, but I can’t figure out how to unwind.
It’s four in the morning, and it’s pitch black, but I reach over to my nightstand for my phone, feeling around until I make contact. The display lights up the room and blinds me for a short second, but I open my messages and text Journey.
Me:Are you awake?
Journey would sleep through an earthquake or a smoke alarm as she has done before, so if she’s asleep, I don’t think my text will wake her.
Journey:No.
Me:Oh.
Journey:Meet me on the front step in a half hour.
Though I’m beyond the point of exhaustion, I somehow muster the energy to locate my suitcase restingon top of my short, wide dresser. I feel around for a pair of leggings and my sweatshirt. The thought of turning the lights on seems painful.
I tiptoe down the creaking wooden stairs, avoiding the few loud, creaking steps. Journey and I got good at remembering which steps would wake up Mom and Dad if we were sneaking in a little too late at night.
Flash forward fifteen years, and I’m sneaking out at four-thirty in the morning.
Out on the front step beneath the mild glow of our black iron lamp post, I stare out into the wooded area across the street. I built so many forts between those trees, always looking for a secret hiding place to read. The cold snap in the air offers my lungs more space to breathe. The dryness is nice compared to the humidity I left behind in South Carolina. Though, I’m shaking from the mild temperatures.
Journey pulls up along the curb, the rocks crackling beneath her slow-moving tires. I jog through the lawn and slip into the passenger seat. Her car smells like coffee and soap, and not a thing out of place. Journey is obsessively neat and orderly. She becomes anxious when anything is out of sorts, but channels her anxiety by hiding or running away, like she did earlier. I’m more vocal about my feelings.
Therefore, it isn’t surprising that we drive into town without saying one word to each other. Even the radio is off. We pull into a parking spot in front of the 1950s diner that remains open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’s the last stop before the on-ramp to the highway, so it doesn’tattract as many locals as it does visitors. Meaning, hopefully, no one will know us in here.
We step out, in single file, walk into the quiet hum of the diner. There are only a few others here, all seated at the countertop, starring at a hanging TV while sipping on a mug of coffee.
Journey takes the lead and plops down in the last booth to the far left of the restaurant, and I follow, sitting across from her.
She combs her dark-painted nails through her matching dark hair. Journey covers the natural red locks she was born with. It’s hard to hide, but her hair is more auburn than ginger like it once was.
"This sucks," she says. I only nod because if I say too much, she won’t continue talking. "I knew something was up a few months ago when Dad got this wet cough. He wiped his mouth with a tissue, and I saw blood. I told him to get to the doctor."
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"Because he said the doctor said, ‘All is well.’ There was no sense in alarming you."
"I thought we got a second chance. I thought it would last forever.”
"We got a second chance," Journey says, matter-of-fact.
"There is so much going through my head right now, and I can’t settle on just one thought," I say.
"Do you ladies want some coffee or some breakfast, maybe?" An older woman with her white hair in a mesh net under a fifties style cap glances between us with tired eyes and a small smile. She has a pencil in her hand and an order pad ready in case we want more than coffee.
