First Love

by James Patterson

  He was staring sleepily out the window now, watching the world go by the way I used to do. “Have you noticed,” he said once, “how this entire country is, like, in patterns? It goes city, then suburban sprawl, then farmland. And then city, suburban sprawl, farmland again…”

  “And you’re never more than fifty miles from a McDonald’s,” I joked.

  “That’s a relief,” he answered.

  Later that evening, after speeding through Delaware, Maryland, and half of Virginia, I pulled into a rest stop in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the humid twilight, I spread out our sleeping bags near the border of trees. I didn’t bother with the tent, because I didn’t want to draw any attention our way. According to the strange logic of the interstate rest area system, sleeping is fine, but camping isn’t. And although camping at a rest area would be pretty low on my list of crimes and misdemeanors, I saw no reason to be awakened by a cop tapping his flashlight on our tent pole.

  I held out the Slim Jim I’d bought for Robinson at the last gas station, but he shook his head. “That Filet-O-Fish we had for dinner is sitting in my stomach like a ball of lead,” he groaned. “I think I’m going to have to sleep it off.”

  “I told you to order the salad,” I said. “It was good.”

  He snorted. “Getting a salad at McDonald’s is like going into Car Toys and coming out with a pencil sharpener.” He slipped into the sleeping bag, not bothering to remove anything but the belt from his jeans.

  “Well, I feel just fine,” I said a bit huffily.

  “Well, you don’t have cancer,” he snapped.

  I sucked in my breath sharply and held it. In the silence that followed, I heard the crickets chirping and the rushing waves of cars passing by on the highway. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine it was the sound of the ocean.

  I felt Robinson reaching for my hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I turned to him, tears now wetting my cheeks. “What, we should just pretend that everything’s all right? We should just believe what we want to believe? Is that what we should do, Robinson?”

  He was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know what we should do,” he said softly. “Wake up and drive some more tomorrow. Try to laugh. Love each other. I mean, what else is there?”

  “I’m scared,” I whispered.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Axi.” He brought my hand up to his lips and kissed it, right in the center of my palm.

  “Again, is that what we want to believe? I just feel like we’re stumbling forward now, hoping for the best. I mean, where are we going? And where is the road map? The metaphorical one, I mean—the directions. LEGO sets come with directions. Temporary tattoos come with directions. Once I saw an entire Web page dedicated to telling you how to order coffee from Starbucks!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! Step one is ‘Decide what you want to order before your turn in line.’ I’m like, oh, really? Wow! Thank you so much! I never would have thought of that.”

  Robinson was laughing now. I was glad I’d cheered him up, but I wasn’t feeling any better. “Where are the directions for the big things? Because I want them,” I cried. “What are the instructions for, I don’t know, life?”

  Robinson’s laugh slowly faded. “Axi, if we had directions, it wouldn’t be life. It would be an assignment. Grunt work. Not knowing is a major part of the deal.”

  I knew he was right, but I didn’t like it. Sighing, I scooted as close to him as possible, but the zippers of our sleeping bags kept us apart.

  “ ‘As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality,’ ” I said.

  “Huh?” said Robinson.

  “Einstein,” I said. “Mr. Fox had that written at the top of his chalkboard.”

  “I like it,” Robinson said.

  “Well, I want certainty,” I said.

  I felt like Robinson and I were caught between two different worlds. There was the world we’d been living in—a world of freedom, beauty, and, okay, yes, utterly wonderful and terrible irresponsibility—and then there was the darker, sadder world that I sensed we were about to enter. I wanted to know how to navigate it.

  Robinson tilted his head closer to mine. “You can put it on your Christmas list.”

  I turned away. “Don’t patronize me. I don’t even know where we’re driving to.”

  Robinson rolled over and stared up at the sky. It was a deep, velvety blue, and little pinpricks of stars were appearing, more and more every minute. “Here is certainty,” he said. “I love you, Axi Moore. And I will never not love you, for the rest of my life.”

  The tears came again, and I didn’t bother to wipe them away. “I love you, too,” I whispered. “For the rest of my life.”

  We kissed, wrapping our arms around each other and holding on tight. And then, exhausted, we said good night and closed our eyes to sleep.

  Lying there in the summer night, it was almost as if I could feel the earth moving beneath us, turning on its axis. And as I listened to the crickets singing to each other, I wondered if the rest of my life and the rest of Robinson’s life meant two entirely different lengths of time.

  How do you know anything for sure? I thought. But I knew the answer to that already. You don’t.

  Finally I fell asleep. In the middle of the night, Robinson and I rolled toward each other, our arms crossing. The night seemed to hold us, too, in a big, soft, dark embrace.

  Robinson’s voice was low and groggy. “Maybe we should get married,” he said.

  I couldn’t speak; my heart was too full. Full of joy and surprise—and futility, too, because they don’t let you do that at sixteen. I put my head on his chest, wishing I could melt into him entirely. The best I could do was match my breathing to his long, steady breaths. In a moment, I realized that he was asleep again.

  It was possible he hadn’t even been truly awake in the first place.

  46

  IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, SOMEWHERE in North Carolina, we took an exit off the highway and ended up in a park, near the shore of a small lake.

  “Let’s stop for a little while,” Robinson said. “I like this spot.”

  Ringed by trees and rolling hills, the lake was calm, reflecting the blue sky back at itself. I rolled down the window and breathed in the smell of clean, piney air. “It’s pretty here,” I agreed.

  We climbed out of the Mustang and walked toward the edge of the shimmering water. Robinson bent down, selected a flat stone, and then skipped it across the surface—one, two, three times.

  He snorted. “Terrible. I used to be able to do twelve.”

  I stood beside him and snaked my arm around his waist. It felt so good to be off the road—to feel my muscles loosening, my gas-pedal foot slowly uncramping. “Maybe we should rent a paddleboat or something. Take a break. Drive some more later.”

  It was like he hadn’t even heard me. “I used to love coming here,” he said.

  “What?”

  His eyes swept over the lake, but he seemed to be seeing some other thing. Or some other time. “We used to build these crazy rafts and tow them over in wagons. Then we’d see how many kids we could pile on them before they’d sink. We’d get in trouble because you need a permit for a boat. And we’d always argue that we weren’t on a boat—we were on a raft made by nine-year-olds out of packing crates and big pieces of Styrofoam.”

  “Wait a second,” I said, dropping my arm from his waist and taking a step back. “Are you talking about this lake?”

  “Of course,” Robinson said. “I was born three miles away.”

  Before I could stop myself, I shoved him, and he stumbled a little. “I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing his hand. “But wait. You brought me… home?”

  “I wanted you to meet my parents,” Robinson said, as if this were the simplest, least surprising thing in the world.


  I was totally gobsmacked. I didn’t even know where we were, really, and now I was about to meet Robinson’s parents, who until now had been about as real to me as a couple of unicorns.

  “Welcome to Asheville, North Carolina,” Robinson said, gesturing to the trees and paths and joggers around us. “Formerly Tuberculosis Central, and now known as the Paris of the South, or, to the writers of Rolling Stone, the New Freak Capital of the US.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. I didn’t know whether to kiss him or kick him. “You wait until now to tell me?”

  He smiled. “A guy ought to surprise his girl once in a while,” he said. “It’s romantic that way. Now let’s go see the sights, such as they are.”

  And for the next hour, he showed me around his hometown. I saw the shop where he bought his first guitar; the elm tree that he broke his arm falling out of; the elementary school where he’d started a rock ’n’ roll club (“It got huge, even though some super-ancient dudes protested, saying rock ’n’ roll was ‘the devil’s music,’ ” Robinson said proudly).

  Nothing was particularly special—and yet everything was extraordinary because it was a part of Robinson’s previously classified childhood. I wanted to stop at every corner, peer in every window. I wanted to stop strangers and ask them to tell me a story about Robinson. He’d opened the door to his past, and I wanted to walk right through it.

  Robinson touched my arm, directing my attention toward a drugstore sandwiched between a café and a crystal shop. “Look,” he said. “There’s even a place like Ernie’s. But the coffee’s even worse—it’s like battery acid. I swear it once ate a hole in my jeans.” He shook his head at the memory. “Of course, it could have been actual battery acid that did that. I certainly spent enough time in my dad’s shop.”

  “His shop?” I asked.

  “He owns a car repair shop. Robinson’s Repairs.”

  “Wow, he named it after you?”

  Robinson shrugged noncommittally. “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of? Who else would it be—the Swiss Family Robinson? Jackie Robinson? Robinson Crusoe? Smokey Rob—”

  “Hey, see that?” he interrupted. “That’s the streetlight that my brother ran his custom-built Cheemer into.”

  “Cheemer?” I said. “I don’t know what a Cheemer is.” Clearly the shop-naming conversation wasn’t going anywhere.

  “A Chevrolet with a BMW engine,” Robinson explained. “You know, Chevy plus Beemer? Jay Leno has one.”

  “Oh,” I said, wishing these names meant anything to me. “So it’s like an automotive mash-up.”

  He laughed. “Exactly. It’s the car version of that Eazy-E and Johnny Cash thing, ‘Folsom Prison Gangstaz.’ I got beat for the street, Ta pump in ya jeep—”

  “You should probably stop,” I said. “That guy over there is looking at you funny.”

  “Like I care,” Robinson replied, but he stopped anyway. He seemed tired again. “Drive that way, why don’t you?” He pointed vaguely to the east, and that was how I saw the Biltmore House, an enormous Gilded Age chateau built by a Vanderbilt whose name Robinson couldn’t recall. It looked like a fairy-tale castle—a place where Cinderella would live happily ever after with her prince.

  Where was my happily-ever-after, I wanted to know. Why did that silly girl get one when my chances were so slim?

  Without even thinking, I pulled onto the shoulder of the road. I looked over at Robinson as if I were about to ask him these questions.

  “Oh, this is perfect,” he said. “This is a very special place.”

  I looked around. We were stopped in the middle of a bunch of trees. “What’s so great about it?”

  Robinson unbuckled my seat belt and pulled me toward him. He brought his mouth close to mine and whispered, “It’s where I did this.”

  And then he kissed me, so long and sweet and tender that I almost cried—because here we were, together, and maybe this was finally the end of the road.

  47

  THE HOUSE WAS A THREE-STORY VICTORIAN with a high, round turret, stained-glass windows, and an enormous porch. The front steps bowed in the middle, and the paint was beginning to fade and peel. But it was picturesque that way—a little bit of shabby chic.

  There were rosebushes everywhere, blossoming in all different colors: snow-white, yellow tipped with sunset orange, the soft pink of a ballet slipper. The roses climbed a trellis on the porch and spilled over the railings, filling the air with their glorious perfume.

  I climbed the steps after Robinson, cold with nerves. He gave me a quick squeeze and then rang the doorbell.

  For a moment, nothing happened. I heard a voice and barking inside, and then a woman who I assumed was Robinson’s mother appeared in the doorway. When she saw who had rung, she opened her mouth as if to shout, but instead she fell to the floor—she just sort of crumpled in the hall, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

  Robinson yelped, “Mom!” And he went to help her up, but before he got to her, a man who had to be Robinson’s dad appeared in the hall. He saw Robinson, and for a second he just gaped at him.

  They were acting like they’d seen a ghost.

  Awkward! I thought—and they had yet to even notice me, the other unannounced visitor.

  Of course, if I showed up at my apartment after vanishing the way I had, my dad would probably assume I was some booze-induced hallucination and slam the door in my face.

  Robinson’s dad slowly bent down to pick up his wife. It was like they were in some kind of slow motion. When they both were finally vertical again, their shock started giving way to a kind of joy I couldn’t remember seeing in my father since I was a little girl. Robinson’s mom grabbed her son and squeezed him hard. “Oh my God!” she cried. “You’re here! I missed you so much!”

  Robinson’s dad was wiping his eyes, trying to keep it together. He reached out and grasped Robinson’s shoulder. “Oscar,” he said, his voice full of wonder and relief, “you came back.”

  Robinson was blinking hard and fast and maybe sniffling a little bit. And I was crying, too, at the sight of their reunion, and at the same time thinking, Oscar? Who’s Oscar?

  The barking began again, and a small brown dog came waddling up as fast as her short legs would carry her. “Leafy!” Robinson cried.

  She was as fat as a sausage, and her whole body wagged while her tail stayed still. Robinson got down on the floor, and she proceeded to attack him in an ecstasy of yipping and licking. “Sit, girl,” he said, laughing, and she obeyed him for about five milliseconds before launching herself at him again. “I love you, too,” he said, rubbing her long brown ears.

  Then a tall man who looked almost exactly like an older, burlier Robinson came into the hallway and said, “What’s all the ruckus?”

  When he saw Robinson, he rushed forward. He looked like he was going to tackle Robinson, and without thinking I jumped in and shot my arm out, as if I—all five feet five inches and 120 pounds of me—could block his charge.

  The man stopped short and said, “Wow, hot bodyguard, man.”

  I flushed as Robinson and his brother hugged and slapped each other on the back.

  Then Robinson stepped away and put his arm protectively around my shoulders. “Everyone,” he said, “this is Axi.” He looked down at me and smiled. “My partner in crime.” And then in front of everyone, he kissed me—a little less chastely than I might have expected.

  “Well, well,” said his mother, sniffling and trying to smile at me, too. “Axi, I’m glad to meet you.” And then instead of shaking my hand, she pulled me close into her rose-smelling neck, and I realized how long it had been since a mother—any mother—had held me. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” she said, patting the damp spot she’d made on my shirt. She laughed, embarrassed. “I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

  Robinson made the rest of the introductions. “That’s my brother, Jonathan. He’s twenty, but he’s probably still living here, because he’s a bum like that.” The a
ffection was obvious in Robinson’s voice.

  Jonathan pretended to take offense. “I’ve got my own place,” he said. “I’m just over here borrowing Dad’s tools.”

  “And waiting to see what your mother will make for dinner,” his father added.

  “Maybe,” Jonathan allowed.

  Robinson said, “And this is my dad, Joe, and my mom, Louise, but everyone calls her Lou.”

  “And what about you?” I whispered. “Oscar?”

  He gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. “You can see why I go by Robinson,” he said. Then he pulled me close to him again. “I promise,” he whispered, “that’s the last of my secrets.”

  48

  AFTER A DELICIOUS DINNER OF LASAGNA, garlic bread, and salad, during which there were more tears and more fits of laughter than I could count, Robinson took my hand and led me to the back of the house.

  “I wasn’t allowed to have girls in my room,” he said, “but I’m going to assume my parents are over that by now.” He pushed on a rather rickety door, but instead of opening into a bedroom, it led to a porch, with windows on all three sides. The painted wooden floor was scuffed and pitched; there was a wicker love seat along one wall and a double bed shoved against another. Guitars and amps were arranged in the corners, alongside neat stacks of CDs.

  “This is your bedroom?” I asked, thinking of my dark closet of a room back home.

  “It’s the old sleeping porch. This place was once a boardinghouse for TB patients,” Robinson said. “People with tuberculosis were supposed to sleep in fresh air, so there are rooms like this all over Asheville.”

  “I love it,” I said, running my finger along the windowsill.

  Robinson sank down onto the bed. “I slept on the floor out here for two weeks,” he said. “Staking my claim. Finally, they said it could be mine.”

  I sat down next to him. The sheets were clean and the pillows freshly plumped; either someone had sneaked in to make the bed, or Robinson’s mother had kept up his room as if he’d only gone out for a walk. “Your parents are amazing. Why weren’t you with them—all along?” I asked.