Finally, Forever Read online

  I cringe at the thought but then Nick points behind me and I turn to see Rachel and Gray walking outside. They stall at the front doors to say goodbye and I look away so I don’t have to see Gray touch her.

  “Listen to me,” Nick says and turns my shoulders back to him. I feel like my bones have turned as malleable as rubber. I want to slump to the ground. “She’s not right for him. He’s not in love with her.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “Guess who he spent all his time watching over dinner?”

  I shake my head. “He hardly ever looked at me, Nick. He was avoiding me.”

  “Exactly, because he was too busy glaring at me. Which I didn’t mind, he has gorgeous eyes, even when they’re plotting my death. You could see a landslide of jealousy streaming down the kid’s face.”

  I look down at the ground. “I can’t lie to him.”

  “You don’t have to. I did the lying for you. It’s what friends do.”

  I watch Rachel get into the driver’s seat of a bright blue hatchback. As she drives away I catch sight of her personalized license plate and my mouth drops open. It says HORSES.

  Horses? I try to envision Gray living on a horse ranch. Equestrian gear, wranglers, chaps? He hates country music (unless it’s alt-country, he claims). Even my wildest imagination can’t visualize it. She is so wrong for him. What is the girl version of a tool? An accessory? Yes! That’s what she is. A safe, simple accessory.

  I remind myself to breathe. Jealousy is toxic. It’s unattractive. It’s like poison in my brain, and even worse, it’s a waste of time. I extract every bad thought I have of Rachel and I put them in a glass jar in my mind. I tighten a lid around the jar and toss it over my shoulder. I feel a little better. I’m determined not to think another negative thought about Rachel. I’m determined not to think about her, period.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay if I leave now?” I ask Nick.

  He nods and looks longingly at his car.

  “I’ll stay with Orson until the end,” he says and rubs the hood of his car. “He deserves that much.”

  I stroke Nick’s cheek. “He’s had a good life,” I say. “This wasn’t your fault. It was just his time,” I say.

  Nick inhales a sharp breath and nods. He squeezes his eyes shut as if he’s trying to block out a painful image. “I wish I understood. Why Orson? He was such a great car. He never got in an accident. He never even got a flat tire.”

  I grab his hands in mine.

  “Because somewhere, up in heaven, an angel needed a car. The strongest, most reliable car, and God looked down on Earth and searched for the perfect, German made vehicle that was safe enough for his angel to drive. And he chose Orson.”

  Nick nods.

  “Now, whenever you see a shooting star at night, you’ll know it’s an angel driving Orson through the sky.”

  “That was so beautiful,” he says. He looks over at the sidewalk and Gray steps away from Rachel and turns to us. Nick tightens his fingers around mine.

  “I bet you’ll be in each other’s pants in forty eight hours.”

  “That’s not what I want,” I say. “I just want Gray to be happy.”

  “Exactly. That’s why you need to do this.” He grabs my arms and pulls me close. “Kiss me like I’m Gray.”

  Before I can respond he scoops up my face in his hands and leans down and kisses me full on the lips. Nick’s lips are huge and wet and smother me. It’s more like a face wash than a kiss and I can’t pull away because he’s holding my head in his hands so tightly I can feel each of his fingertips dig into my scalp. I try not to gag on his tongue.

  He lets go and gazes lovingly into my eyes.

  “I love you, Dilly Bar,” he says to me.

  Now I don’t have to lie, because I love Nick.

  “I love you a billion times a gazillion,” I say and I turn around to see Gray standing a few feet away, looking sick to his stomach, like he just stepped in a fresh pile of vomit on the sidewalk.

  Gray

  I feel vomit creeping up the back of my throat and I swallow it down. Dilly bar?

  Dylan tells me she has to grab a few things from the front seat. Nick pulls her duffel bag out of the trunk, the huge one she brought to New Mexico last spring. I walk over to my trunk and open it up and shove a few baseball bats to the side to make room. Nick hands me the duffel bag, a sleeping bag and a pillow.

  “You know, Dylan’s mentioned you before,” he says.

  “Is that right?” I ask as I try to maneuver my crap with Dylan’s crap so all of our crap is together again, entwined under the same roof. Crap.

  “You two used to date.”

  Date. That’s a funny word to describe the path of emotional chaos that constituted our failed relationship. I give her luggage an unnecessarily hard shove.

  “Something like that.” I look back at Nick and he’s watching me. Is this is another staring contest? I always win.

  “She tells me everything, you know.”

  I slam the trunk closed and narrow my eyes.

  “Everything?” I ask. Like how once I got her off eight times in one day? How I probably hold an orgasm world record? What have you got, Dr. Boy? I blow out a sigh and tell him what he already knows.

  “Then you know you can trust her,” I say. He narrows his eyes and nods slowly.

  “Take care of my girl,” he says and turns and walks away.

  I get in the car and shut the door a little too forcefully. Dylan sits down in the seat and closes the door and I can’t help myself.

  “Did I hear him right?” I ask, and look over at her. “Dilly bar? Seriously, he calls you Dilly Bar?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “What’s wrong with it? Want to get out a pen and paper while I list all the things that are wrong with it? You have a great name. Why does he need to mutilate it?”

  “It’s a nickname,” Dylan defends him.

  “Oh,” I say and start the ignition. “So, what do you call him? S-Nick-er bar?”

  It wasn’t the conversation-ending comeback I was hoping for because Dylan laughs out loud, this blasting laugh that comes all the way from her stomach. My lips tighten because it’s one of those contagious laughs that make you want to join in and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of thinking I’m enjoying this quality time together.

  “It’s better than horses,” Dylan mumbles and clips her seatbelt into the lock. I ask her what she means.

  “Your girlfriend’s personalized license plate? Horses?” Dylan says.

  What is she talking about? My girlfriend? I swore off relationships over a year ago, just like I gave up pot. They both are equally bad for my health. But I know what car she’s referring to.

  “Rachel?” I ask.

  Dylan nods. “You know, I try really hard never to judge people Gray. I’ve always left the judging up to you. You’re a natural at it.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “And I’m not jealous,” she points out. “I’m just, a little disappointed.”

  I can’t believe this. “What, you can date somebody and I can’t?”

  “It’s not that. She just isn’t what I expected. I know you’re really picky about who you let into your life and—” she cuts herself off. Dylan is terrible at verbal insults. It’s one of her best qualities.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “No, I don’t want to be mean. She’s very nice. She has very clean fingernails and I respect that.” She frowns at her own abused nail beds.

  “No, please, I really want to know what you’re thinking,” I say, fascinated.

  Dylan sighs. “She just isn’t interesting. At all. I’m sorry, I know it’s a terrible thing to say. But it’s the truth.”

  I pinch the inside of my cheeks between my teeth to hide my smile. Dylan looks genuinely upset and there is something extremely satisfying about her expression.

  “You’ve known her for an entire hour.”

  “You can tell within
five minutes if a person is interesting,” Dylan argues. “Actually, I’ve mastered figuring it out in one minute by examining shoes, hands, fingers, eyes and chosen mode of transportation.”

  “What are you, a forensics investigator?” I ask and she ignores my comment.

  “She’s not interesting. Like I said, it just isn’t someone I pictured you with.”

  I stare out at the restaurant for a few seconds, filing away our conversation. I can’t believe Dylan assumed Rachel was my girlfriend. She’s my coach’s daughter, which makes her entirely off limits, and she’s still in high school—another major disqualifier. She’s also not remotely my type. And Dylan’s right, I would never be interested in a girl with a license plate that says HORSES. She’s just asking for someone to key her car.

  Do I tell Dylan the truth? My better half says yes, Gray, be honest, but my lousier half (more like three-fourths), says go with it. Embrace the bullshit. I picture Nick with a stethoscope around his head, reviving a dog and Dylan watching at his side.

  Telling the truth would be the adult thing to do. But, I’m still a young adult. I’m allowed to play a few more immaturity cards.

  I realize Dylan did me a huge favor by mistaking Rachel for my girlfriend. She built a wall between us, a huge medieval stone fortress ten stories high. I take a breath of relief and know I can make it through the next few days. Besides, I never technically lied about Rachel. Dylan planted the lie for me.

  I push the stick shift into reverse, but out of the corner of my eye I see Dylan beginning to do the unthinkable. I grab her hand before it touches my stereo.

  “Whoa. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Our eyes lock. Her hand is warm. Her fingertips are hot. It’s like hooked bait catching me, latching on to something inside of me. I drop her fingers and her hand lingers in the air between us.

  “I’m turning on the radio.”

  “I don’t listen to radio stations. I enjoy good music.”

  “Gray, you need to listen to local radio stations on a road trip,” she presses me. “It’s part of the cultural experience when you’re traveling.”

  She starts playing with the tuner until she finds a classic rock station we both agree on.

  I pull out of the parking lot and Dylan is already making herself at home, digging through some maps in the side pocket of my car. She pulls out a US atlas my dad must have given me back in high school. She opens it on her lap.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll be the road trip itinerary director,” she announces.

  “Sounds like a perfect career title for you,” I say.

  “It overlaps well with photography,” she agrees. “Hey, do you think we could check out a rodeo? I’ve never seen one and I think it would be a perfect entertainment addition to our itinerary.”

  “This isn’t a road trip, Dylan. That term suggests the idea of fun and mutual enjoyment. I would call this,” I say and point to the area between us, “an extremely unfortunate predicament.”

  Dylan bites her lips together and stares up at the ceiling of my car. “Gray, do you want me to catch a bus?” she asks. I stop the car at a red light and consider her offer.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m still trying to accept the fact that you’re sitting here right now. I’m not exactly thrilled about it. We have a tiny bit of history together.”

  “Look, I know this is weird,” she agrees.

  “Weird,” I repeat. I shift gears and sail up the ramp to the highway, knowing the faster I drive, the sooner this trip will be over. The accelerator is suddenly my best friend.

  “I want to try and make it fun. But if you really hate me that much, then we don’t have to do this. Okay?”

  I frown at her mature attitude towards my immature reaction.

  “I don’t hate you,” I tell her and swallow. I wish that were my problem. I wish it were that easy. I look out at the endless highway spilling into the horizon. “Fine,” I say, not sure what I just agreed to.

  “Good,” Dylan says. “So, for our first stop tonight, we can aim for—”

  I raise my hand to cut her off. “Let’s pull an all-nighter,” I offer.

  “What?” Dylan looks disappointed. “You miss out on so much when you drive at night,” she argues.

  “You’re not going to miss out on anything, trust me,” I say.

  She looks out the window at flat farm fields stretched along both sides of the highway. “All the scenery vanishes. It’s like you’re driving in an empty, emotionless, black tunnel.”

  I nod. Sounds perfect.

  “You call this scenery?” I ask and point around us. “Do you know what Nebraska is famous for?”

  “Really big corn?” she wonders. “Corn dogs, corn chowder, corn bread, corn meal, corn—”

  “It’s famous for people falling asleep at the wheel. That’s how not-awesome the scenery is. I can take the night shifts,” I offer. “And you can sleep. Then during the day, you can drive and I’ll sleep.”

  I smile at my Operation Avoid Dylan Plan. Activated.

  She studies me. “Are you trying to avoid me?” she asks.

  I answer her question by turning up the music and tuning out our conversation. I know it’s a dick move, but I don’t care. She has Snicker Bar to console her. And touch her. And taste her. My fingers clench around the steering wheel. Sitting so close to her, I can almost smell her skin.

  I kick my car into fifth gear and we’re flying down the highway and a Moody Blues song is playing on the radio. I listen to the lyrics and agree that love is only in our wildest dreams. Even when it’s sitting right next to you, it always feels out of reach.

  Dylan

  He’s doing it again. He’s building a wall around his mind, a giant barricade with guards standing watch behind the parapets, weapons and arrows posed and ready to disarm at anyone daring to come through. But his mind is like a town that I’ve lived in and I know every street. I’ve memorized every turn, every slope, and every jagged hill. He can put up road blocks and build detours all he wants, but I know my way around with my eyes closed.

  I look out the window as we glide by cars on the highway. I try to pass the time by focusing on the families and couples inside, or the solo drivers with eyes lost behind the mask of sunglasses. Imagining their stories helps me think outside of my own situation. I feel like we’re all connected, all together on a journey through the pages of The Illustrated History of the American Road. But no matter how hard I try to ignore him, my eyes keep getting pulled back to Gray. His hands are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I know the shape of them so well. I’ve memorized them like a photograph pinned in the center of my mind.

  Orange sunlight is sinking in the sky and it mirrors a sinking feeling inside my chest.

  I remember how his lips taste. I remember his smile; how it’s the most beautiful image I’ve ever seen. How the first time I saw him smile, on Mill Avenue in Phoenix, my head started to spin. I remember raising my camera and instinctively taking a picture, even though he was barely more than a stranger back then. All I knew was I wanted to capture that image of him. I made it my personal mission to make him smile.

  “I’ve been listening to a lot of Counting Crows lately,” I say. “You introduced me to them.”

  Gray doesn’t look over at me, doesn’t even react. He might not have heard me, but I keep going.

  “I love their first album,” I say and stare out at the hazy horizon. The humid air is so thick it swallows us. “They ask a lot of questions in their lyrics. They make you think. You could fill an entire journal just answering the questions in their songs.”

  Gray’s silent. I notice his mouth tighten at the corner as if he wants to respond but he’s fighting it. I’m trying to open the lock on his lips and I think talking about music can do it. It’s his favorite conversation topic. He always has an opinion.

  “The best song on that album is track eleven,” I press. “It’s all about change. How change is maybe the most impo
rtant thing in life. And the hardest.”

  Gray’s lips open and he sucks in a breath. I smile to myself. I’ve opened up the seam. I give myself a mental high-five.

  “What did you mean when you said I White-Fanged you?” he asks.

  “It’s a movie reference,” I say and stretch my legs and rest one of my sneakers on top of the dashboard. I look over at him. “White Fang?”

  He starts to smile. “Isn’t that the movie about a dog?”

  “It’s a wolf, Gray,” I correct him. “A boy, played by Ethan Hawke, makes friends with a wolf. But he realizes the wolf will never be happy as a pet. It needs to be wild and free. So he pushes it away. He throws rocks at White Fang and forces him to run. He thinks he’s doing the best thing for him. He just wants him to be free.”

  Gray pulls his eyebrows together at my description. “You mean like Harry and the Hendersons?” he asks and looks over at me.

  This time I pull my eyebrows together. “What?”

  “It’s basically the same storyline, but with a Sasquatch.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “You’ve never seen Harry and the Hendersons?” he asks, a little condescendingly, and I shake my head. “It’s one of the greatest movies of all times,” he tells me. “Well, at least when you’re eight.” He starts to summarize the plot, how a family finds a Sasquatch on a camping trip and they bring him home and fall in love with him. But Harry never fits into their world.

  “Wow,” I say and shake my head at the synopsis. “What a great message.”

  “It’s a powerful film,” he agrees.

  “There should be more movies with a lead Sasquatch,” I say. “They exist, you know.”

  He nods. “I never doubted it. They’re in the Pacific Northwest.”

  “In the Olympic National Park,” I add.

  “Definitely,” he says.

  “When I was driving through Northern California, I met a guy who saw one.”