“I know,” I pant, after chugging half the can. “Believe me, if I could get that kind of cash waiting tables, I would. But I can’t. Not in the timeframe I need it.” I wave my drink in the air like a half-assed toast. To fathers with money. “So...here I am.”
He’s pretending to think about it. Solemnly, I wait, knowing this is just a formality. By now, Dad’s dividends rival what he used to earn on Wall Street. He and Megan won’t feel one bit of strain.
Not that my pride isn’t absolutely destroyed, right now. I hate doing this. And I’m definitely not going to take something for nothing.
“I’ll repay every cent within a year,” I tell him again, “no matter what. Even if I have to give up skating and stick with serving. Hell, I’ll get an office job, if that’s what it takes.”
Dad chuckles to himself. “Never thought I’d hear you say that. This must be really important to you.”
“You have no idea.”
Pity fills his eyes. It’s possible I look even more pathetic than I feel, groveling for a check from dear old Dad.
On the other hand, he’s got a soft heart. Always has, even when he’s determined to hide it.
“Here.” Dad tears off the check and passes it to me. “If you need more, let me know.”
“That should be enough.” I spent my travel time between Brooklyn and here researching the hell out of it and calculating a likely estimate. Still—good to know, in case my math is wrong. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t worry about paying me back.”
“I’m not worried about it,” I tell him firmly, “because it’s set in stone. No matter what I have to do, you’re getting all of this back in twelve months or less, like I said.”
When I hold out my hand, he gives a confused smile and shakes it.
“Seriously, though,” he says, “no rush.”
“Yes, rush.” Holding this check doesn’t just hurt my pride. Everything feels off, and I know it won’t stop until I’ve returned his kindness and then some. I hate owing people.
I guess, when you get right down to it, I hate leaving things imbalanced.
But if I’ve got to tip some invisible, cosmic scale out of my favor to nudge it back to Juni’s…I’ll slam my side all the way up to the sky.
Thirty-Eight
Three Months Later
Usually, I adore autumn in my Transit.
Every year, you’ll find me posting endlessly about changing leaves, pumpkins, sweater weather, bonfires...all the things foundation-bound people love about fall, too, but that become magnified when you live on the road. I guess it’s because van life is all about coziness, and enjoying the little things in life.
Except, apparently, this year.
“Come on,” I groan, when I notice the window in the bathroom is leaking, yet again, and rainwater oozes down the wall behind the toilet. The draft it lets in is anything but cozy.
Duct tape helps, but I know it will only get worse when the storm picks up. Add in the fact the access road is supposed to flood, and it quickly becomes clear I need to leave this campground and find covered parking.
“Decided not to brave the storm after all, huh?” The woman at the park entrance smiles patronizingly as I rumble through the gate.
Honestly, it might just be me projecting my own bitterness onto her face. I’ve been doing that a lot, the last few months: finding it hard to assume the best of people.
Much as I hate the idea of parking at a hospital, it’s the first place I find with a deck. I choose the emptiest level and pull into a space, cut the engine, and open up the back doors.
Tonight, my view is downtown Jackson. Framed in concrete and rain, it’s not exactly a sight you’d slap on a postcard.
But I do like the storm, now that it’s not invading the Transit. Every roll of thunder echoes through the structure, shaking me to the bone.
I grab my cell and pull up my latest post: my trip to Horseshoe Bend, where I met a newlywed couple traveling to the same film festival as me. The guy turned out to be a carpenter, so we bartered: he fixed the rattling cabinet under my bed, and I gave them an extra can of coffee I bought before civilization gave way to endless desert. The girl was so grateful to get caffeine again, she let me take pictures of their RV for the blog.
They were just about the friendliest people I’ve met since I started traveling, but camping near them was tough. They were so infatuated with each other, always touching and laughing.
One picture I took—their initials, carved into the ceiling over their bunk—made my heart sing and ache at the same time.
I loved that they had that kind of love. I hated that I didn’t.
I despised, with every cell in my body, that I almost did.
In the end, I decided not to post that one. Maybe I took it knowing I would keep it for myself all along. Much as it hurts, I feel a weird kind of peace when I look at it. Like now.
Or like when I look at another photo on my phone—one I know I’d be better off deleting, but treasure far too much to even try.
When I swipe to it, my heart cracks in half. I think. There might not be anything left, by this point.
His intense blue eyes. That smile that once seemed impossible to draw out.
My own face, drowsy but radiating pure happiness I haven’t felt since.
A coupe with tinted windows crawls past. The driver, though obscured, is obviously staring at me.
I pull my legs in and shut the doors, then lock the others.
Unity Light isn’t looking for you. I lie down and breathe until my pulse slows, listening for the car. It rolls onward.
Logically, I realize the driver was probably gawking at the Transit. It happens a lot. But I still don’t relax until I peek out the rear window, find the car in the parking space across from mine, and watch a frail old lady shuffle out of the driver’s side. A baby balloon and pink stuffed lamb fill her arms.
See? False alarm.
It’s not bad to be cautious, though. Fear is useful. I just wish my first thoughts were the horrors I hear in my crime podcasts, instead of a canvasser one day approaching me.
That might be why I started listening to all those crime stories in the first place: to give my brain a dose of reality, and remind it that, statistically speaking, I was more likely to suffer a hundred other horrific fates—or none at all—than to get dragged into any cult. Let alone that one.
Humans can suffer from a whole mess of cognitive biases, though, and I wouldn’t be shocked to learn I’ve got them all. It’s hard to tell yourself X or Y won’t happen when they already have. You stop trusting statistics once you’ve been one.
I shake my head at myself and rub my face. Enough Unity Light thoughts. Enough fear. Enough Van.
My phone pings: a text from Clara, who’s communicated off and on with me for the last three months. Mostly, our conversations consist of work talk, funny pictures, and in-depth discussions about every episode of Cut to the Chases, a sitcom Wes starred in as a kid.
She couldn’t believe I’d never heard of it, but was thrilled to “introduce me to the defining sitcom of our childhoods.”
Just yours, I thought. But I agreed to watch the pilot, for her sake.
Wes looking virtually nothing like Van helped me give the show a fair shot. Seeing “Durham” anywhere in the opening credits almost made me chuck my laptop out the window, but I got past it. Eventually.
I’m now in the final season, with a new nighttime routine of watching two or three episodes after dinner. I’m not sure why I like it, except that it’s one of those feel-good programs where everything always works out. It’s nice to hit Play and know a happy ending is guaranteed.
I open my thread with Clara and read her text.
Clara: What episode are you on?
Juni: The one where Maisie thinks her parents are kicking her out, but they’re just redoing her room.
Clara: Ooh, that’s a good one. But the entire last season is good, really.
Juni: You’ve said that about every episode. And every season.
Clara: And I always mean it.
Clara: ...
Clara: So where’s Eloise parked tonight?
I get up and take a picture through the rear window, then send it to her with the caption, “Mississippi. Stunning, isn’t it? Hasn’t stopped raining since I got here.” She sends back some laugh emojis, with one crying face mixed in for sympathy.
Clara: Look, I’ll cut to the chase. Pun totally intended. How do you feel about a quick trip to Brooklyn?
Juni: Not great.
Clara: I know...the whole Van thing...but my sister and I are launching a hair dye line and a bunch of other stuff this weekend. The company’s throwing a big party.
Clara: I’d really, really, really love it if you’d come as my guest.
Red flags are all over this invitation. Clara’s tried to get me to “just talk” to Van via text or Instagram, even snail mail, for months. She seems convinced we can make things work.
If we weren’t friends, I’d tell her she got lucky. Her Durham doesn’t remind her of the person she used to be, or where she came from. He never distrusted her with such intensity, she stopped trusting herself.
The other problem: she thinks I hate Van. I wish. Hate is so much easier to get over.
Juni: This is legit? Van won’t be there?
Clara: Just Wes, me, Georgia, and her bf. Promise.
I think about telling her I don’t fully trust promises, anymore. I’ve had a few too many broken to me, and by me.
Clara: If it helps persuade you at all...our line does need ambassadors.
Clara: And I may or may not have already talked you up to the social media people at Rue.
Clara: Aaaand they may or may not want to talk to you about some sponsored posts on your blog.
Juni: Hitting me with the big guns, huh?
Juni: ...
Juni: Send me the date/time/location.
Over the past few months, I’ve slowly memorized the interior of the building next to ours.
Every day, I visit a woman on the top floor who told me, the day she moved in, this was the highest up she’d ever lived. I think she looked at the obstructed skyline for a good hour.
She serves me tea when I arrive, whether I ask for some or not. And I never do, because I don’t really like tea. I just like that she thinks to make it for me.
We chat and watch movies; I bring her food from work and, on occasion, Bowie, who she adores. Since she gives the dog a slice of ham as religiously as she gives me tea, he definitely feels the same way about her.
Sometimes, she cries. I used to spend those visits doing nothing but trying to cheer her up, until one day she informed me that “wasn’t necessary, sweetie.” Crying was helpful, she said. After that, I worked on simply sitting beside her and listening.
It took weeks, but I convinced her to go around New York a few blocks at a time. Crowds scare her, and still kind of piss me off just on principle. Neither of us care for people invading our personal space. But I knew she had to leave sometime, and so did she.
She reads a lot. I got her a tablet, but she doesn’t like that it’s “not real.” The weight of actual books in her hands is important to her. Maybe it’s because she went without them for so long.
Her phone confuses her, but she’s determined to learn how to use it, along with her computer. Netflix fascinates her. Cable gives her a headache, I think because she missed all the programs that gradually led to the glut of reality shows and teen dramas.
She calls me “Sullivan” constantly, apologizing whenever I correct her.
On Sundays when I’m off work, I take her to St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral in Nolita, where I used to go to Mass with my mom. We don’t attend, but sit outside and watch the dressed-up crowds spill from the doors when their service is over.
“Did you like going here?” she asked once. It was an unseasonably warm day; she wiped the sweat off her frozen lemonade and flung the droplets to the sidewalk.
“Once I found out The Godfather was filmed here, definitely.” She laughed. Growing serious, I added, “I liked being with my mom. And some weeks, when he was feeling well, we’d bring my abuelo.”
The pang in my gut was unexpected. Sure, I missed my mom and grandfather like crazy, but their deaths were old news. Why was it hurting so much more, lately?
“Those are wonderful memories,” she said softly. “Hang on to those.”
I hesitated, then told her I would. Her parents passed away years ago, one after the other, but she’d only found out last month. I wondered what it felt like, grieving people the world already let go. A fresh injury with such an old dagger.
“Come on.” We went inside after everyone left. She admired the architecture, lingering by the saints in the windows longer than I think she meant to.
“Do you still believe in God?” she asked, when I paused to light a candle.
“Sometimes.”
Her eyes danced from the flame to my face as I crossed myself, a quick version that looked more like scratching an itch. “Then today is one of those times?”
I shrugged. She didn’t ask who I’d lit the candle for, but I think she already knew. We talked about her daughter a lot.
“Do you think you’re ready yet?” I asked, every single week. The guard dog was growing tamer, with time and practice, but I was still Van: I wanted what I wanted. And I wanted it now.
But I knew this wasn’t about me. It was atonement. Kudos to the powers that be for incorporating one of my biggest flaws into this plan: impatience.
Every time she shook her head, saying, “Not just yet,” it took everything in me to nod and tell her I understood.
Until last week, when Juniper’s mother said yes. She was ready to see her.
* * *
It only took a few weeks for the private investigator to locate Unity Light, now called Unitum Templo. Their compound was just a small farm in Ohio, eerily close to where Juni and I drove through. It had no fences, no alarms—just twenty or so people, living in a row of large houses.
The team that went to pick her up worked quickly. I thought they’d do it like in the movies, throwing a bag over her head and pulling her into a moving car, spitting dust as they left.
Reality was much more boring, but admittedly better for her: they staked out the farm until they knew exactly when she’d be alone. Tuesday afternoons, she took a horse all the way to the road to retrieve the mail.
They called to her from across the street, then approached on foot. She got on her horse and left.
Wednesday afternoon, when it was someone else’s turn to get the mail, she came back. She lingered by the mailbox, flinching when they pulled their car up behind her. But she turned and listened.
Initially, she shook her head at their questions. Are you unhappy here? Are you being kept here against your will? Aren’t you Allison Cole, the missing teen from Duluth?
Do you have a daughter named Jescha?
The second they mentioned Juni, Allison dropped the mail into the mud and covered her mouth.
She wanted to go back for her things; they told her there wasn’t time. A car’s engine was humming from the long, winding road leading through the wall of trees to the farm.
“Now or never,” they told her.
She looped her horse’s reins around the mailbox and climbed into the car. They drove off.
When she asked who sent them, they simply told her, “Name’s Sullivan. You’ll meet him soon.”
One hour in a motel made it clear she didn’t need deprogramming. The fact she left voluntarily was already a big clue, but still. They expected some kind of challenge. Over twenty years in a cult, and she cast off her loyalty to it like the mail she’d dropped in that ditch? Something was up.
Not that I knew any of this in real-time. I didn’t even know if they’d gotten her out of there; weeks had gone by with total silence.
“I paid these guys a shit
ton of money. You paid them a shit ton of money. We don’t even get, like...a progress text?”
Dad laughed at my outrage and said I’d been watching too many crime shows, then grew quiet when he added, “I hope they didn’t take the cash and run.”
The way he said it, I knew he didn’t give a damn about the actual money. He just wanted this for Juniper, almost as much as I did.
It was August when the call came—the anniversary of when Juni appeared at our ranch, in fact. Her chosen birthday.
I told myself it was just coincidence, but something else in my head said, No such thing.
We met in a hotel in Jersey. Allison shook my father’s hand first, then mine, and sat stiffly in the chair by the window before asking, “So you know where my daughter is?”
While he filled Allison in on the details of Juniper’s time at our ranch, I stepped into the hall and paid the retrieval team the second half of what I owed, then thanked them for all they’d done.
One of the team members, a girl about my age with tattoos crawling out from her shirt collar, lingered when the others left. She tilted her head, smiling sweetly, and asked if I was seeing anyone.
“No,” I told her, pretending to rearrange the cards in my wallet. I hated how this answer didn’t feel one bit like a lie.
“But,” I added, “that woman in there?” I rapped my knuckles on the embossed wallpaper of the hallway. “I’m in love with her daughter.”
Her laugh was kind, and tinged with sympathy before she said, “Well, I guarantee she’ll love you back, after what you did for her.”
Seven Sins: Durham Boys, Book 2 Page 27