Bend in the Road

by Sara Biren

  “How you all got to be friends. How long you’ve known them. Things like that.”

  “Well, I’ve known Bunny since kindergarten and Youa since about third grade. Amelia moved here in seventh grade. You already know that Amelia and Youa are cousins.”

  “What’s Bunny’s real name?” I ask.

  “Oh no. Nice try. I’m not going to be the one who lets that cat out of the bag.” She shakes her head.

  “Come on. It’s my birthday!”

  “That’s getting real old, real fast.”

  “OK, fine. Your turn. You ask me something.”

  “Hmm.” She taps her fingers against the steering wheel as she waits her turn at the four-way stop coming into town. “If you could do anything in the world except play music, what would you do?”

  Her question stuns me into silence. I mean, she hit the nail on the head, didn’t she? The root of my current existential crisis, and on my eighteenth birthday, no less. The day I become an adult in the eyes of the law. The day I inherit my grandmother’s farm.

  “That’s easy,” I say, trying—not very well, I think—to play it off lightly. “I’d be a farmer.”

  “Gabe,” she says quietly, “I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” I say. “Honestly, Juniper. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m happier here at the farm than I’ve been in months. Yesterday, working at the farmers’ market and talking to all those people—well, it was exhausting. But it was also exhilarating. Have you ever felt like that? So tired that you could drop right where you are and sleep for days, but at the same time so jazzed up you can’t sleep?”

  She nods as she turns into the driveway of a little brick house next to the Tom Thumb gas station. She doesn’t say a word. I wonder what has ever excited her so much that she would feel that way. Me, I was surprised when I got home from the market and my mind wouldn’t settle down for all the ideas spinning around.

  Ideas for new songs.

  Ideas for our e-biz project.

  Ideas for Stone & Wool, ways we could make it better.

  Together.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  JUNIPER

  I haven’t been to Seasons Tavern for months. As far as dining establishments go, this one’s not the most modern or well-kept—the chairs date back to the sixties, many of the maroon leather cushions are worn or split, and a thick layer of dust has settled over the vast collection of Saint Patrick statues and leprechauns on shelves around the room—but the food can’t be beat.

  Mom had a few errands to run in town before dinner, so she and I meet Gabe and Chris at the restaurant. Gabe looks happy. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him this content and at ease since he came to Harper’s Mill.

  “Elise called me after school,” he says as he peruses the menu. “It was eight in the morning—well, tomorrow—but she said she didn’t want to miss talking to me on my birthday.”

  “That’s great,” Chris says, his tone warm and genuine. “Did she say how the film’s coming along?”

  “Good,” Gabe says, “although Ryan Ballard is acting like a complete diva. She said she’s never met anyone as self-centered or demanding.”

  Chris laughs but my mouth drops open. Ryan Ballard is well-known as one of Hollywood’s most altruistic, generous stars.

  “Hold on,” I say. “Ryan Ballard. The Ryan Ballard who builds a Habitat for Humanity house, like, every other week and donated most of his salary from Hunger Strike to Feeding America?”

  Gabe gawks at me. “Oh, come on. You don’t actually believe all that, do you? It’s called PR, Juniper.”

  Chris nods. “I’ve met the guy. He’s a prick. You ready to order, Laurel?” He nudges Mom.

  “You know what I’m going to order, Chris. How many times have we come here? And how many times have I not ordered the exact same thing?”

  He laughs. “True enough. Tell the kids the story.”

  I roll my eyes. A thousand times, I’ve heard the revolting story of what happened the one time she didn’t order her usual. “Can we at least wait until after we’ve eaten?”

  “Wait,” Gabe says. “Laurel, you order the same thing every time you eat here? Like Juniper at Pizza Ranch?” I’m glad he didn’t call it Pizza Snatch in front of Mom.

  “I do. Tenderloin tips with mushrooms and au gratin potatoes.”

  “And you order this every time you’re here.”

  She nods. “Well, except the once . . .”

  “Right!” I say. “We know. What’s your point, Gabe?”

  He turns to me. “What about you? Are you going to order the same thing?”

  “I guess you’ll have to wait and see,” I say. I smile.

  “She always gets the fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp and asparagus,” Chris says. “Watch. I’m right.”

  I smile. That is what I usually order, yes. Tonight, though, for Gabe’s birthday, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and trying something new.

  Our server, who happens to be Bunny’s mom, Mel, steps up to the table. “Laurel, Chris, Juniper. How nice to see you.” She turns her attention to Gabe. “And you must be Chris, junior.”

  “It’s Gabe, actually,” he says. Again, he’s cheerful and friendly, holding out his hand to Mel like he did with Guinevere at the farmers’ market yesterday.

  “Well, you’re an exact replica,” Mel says.

  “Nah,” Chris chimes in. “He’s a lot smarter than his old man.”

  “I don’t doubt it. What can I get you folks?”

  “Well,” Gabe says, “we’re here for a special occasion. My eighteenth birthday. Tell me, do you know what Laurel and Juniper plan to order?”

  “Oh, of course. Everyone knows.” Mel nods. “But if you’re not sure what you’d like, I can make some recommendations. We’ve got a terrific Monday night special—shepherd’s pie.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  “You go ahead, hon,” Mel says to Gabe, “since it’s your birthday.”

  “Oh, hold on. You’re Bunny’s mom!”

  “Yes, indeed I am.”

  “You know, I’ve been wondering something, and you’re the perfect person to ask.”

  Mel shakes her head. “Don’t even think about it. Bunny will murder me with her bare hands if I tell you her real name.”

  “Nice try, Gabe,” Chris says.

  “I’m sure it’s absolutely lovely. I’d be honored to know it.”

  “You’ve got a smooth one here, Chris,” Mel says. “He should come with a warning label.”

  I snort.

  “Now, what’ll you have?” Mel taps her pen against the order pad.

  “I’ll go with the Dublin Delight combo platter,” Gabe says confidently.

  “Our barbecue pork ribs are the finest around,” Mel says. “How would you like your shrimp? Fried or broiled?”

  “Broiled.”

  “Choice of potato?” Mel rattles off the options and then moves on to Chris, who orders the shepherd’s pie. Mom orders her usual, and then it’s down to me.

  “And for you, Juniper?” Mel asks with a smile.

  Everyone looks at me, waiting to see what I’ll do. I square my shoulders. “I’ll have Vivian’s Variety, broiled, with steamed vegetables.”

  Mom’s jaw drops, Chris swears under his breath, and Gabe leans over to hug me.

  “Oh my God, Blue, this is the best birthday gift you could give me. You’re trying something new! What’s Vivian’s Variety, anyway?”

  Mel chuckles. “Scallops, shrimp, and fish. Excellent choice, hon.”

  When she walks away, no one speaks for long seconds.

  “I didn’t think you had it in ya, kid,” Chris finally says.

  “I did,” Gabe says softly. “I knew it all along.”

  After we’ve all pushed our plates back, overfull and content, Chris reaches into his pocket and tosses a set of keys across the table at Gabe.

  “I’m going to catch a ride back to the farm with Laurel and call it a night. But why do
n’t you and Juniper go for a spin?”

  Gabe’s mouth falls open. “You’re letting me drive the Twister?”

  “That’s the 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1 Twister Special to you,” Chris says. “Happy birthday. Don’t fuck this up.”

  “It’s about damn time,” Gabe says, grinning.

  I’ve only ridden in the Twister one time, right after Chris brought it home from the car show in Kansas. Gabe is quiet, almost reverent, as he runs his hand across the gleaming yellow-orange paint and the chrome door handle on the passenger side. He opens the door for me, and I slide in, hit with the unmistakable scent of old leather, oil, classic car. Seconds later, he’s in the driver’s seat, caressing the wide steering wheel.

  “Finally,” he says on an exhale, as though he’s been holding his breath. He turns to look at me, blissful and disbelieving at the same time. “Blue, where should we go? California? The moon?”

  I laugh as Gabe turns the key in the ignition and the car rumbles to life.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  GABE

  I’ve waited for this moment for what feels like my whole life. Which is dramatic, I know. But ever since the BMW incident—I was sixteen and the ink was practically still wet on my license, but I insisted Chris let me take the car because (a) I was sixteen and thought I knew everything and (b) I wanted to impress a girl—Chris hasn’t let me drive any of his vintage cars.

  Not that I blame him.

  Driving the Twister fills me with an undefinable joy. I’ve never felt this alive before behind the wheel of any vehicle. Not the BMW, for sure not the RAV4.

  Driving the Twister with Juniper next to me? Even better.

  I inhale deeply.

  “This car,” I say. “God, it’s even better than I dreamed.”

  “You dreamed about this car?” Juniper says, scrunching her little nose up in that cute way she does when she’s confused.

  “Oh yeah, since the minute I found out Chris was going to that auction in Kansas. I had this feeling he was going to bring her home. I thought that meant LA, but for some reason, he wanted her here.”

  “Where are we going?” Juniper asks as I drive the car down Main Street and out toward the highway.

  “The open road, Blue. The open road.”

  She laughs. I love hearing it.

  “An adventure?” she asks.

  “Are you kidding me? You ordered something new tonight. I’m going to take advantage of this adventurous spirit of yours while I can.”

  “Look out for deer,” she says.

  “Help me watch for them,” I say.

  “I take that job very seriously,” she says. I can tell without looking at her that she’s sincere.

  “I know you do.” Every day, I find there’s something more I like about this girl.

  We drive north, where the landscape changes into even more forest and hills. Eventually I’ll need to stop for gas, but for now I want to feel the hum, the heartbeat of the vehicle beneath me. I turn on the radio and punch one of the preset buttons, a classic rock station. Not surprisingly, it’s playing a Led Zeppelin song. More surprisingly, it’s “When the Levee Breaks,” not “Stairway to Heaven.”

  “This is my favorite Zeppelin song,” I say.

  “I’m not sure that I have a favorite Zeppelin song,” she says.

  “Oh, come on. Everyone has a favorite Zeppelin song. Even if you think you don’t, you probably do.”

  “I don’t know about that. I don’t listen to a lot of music.”

  “Come on. Humor me. ‘Whole Lotta Love’? ‘Ramble On’? Oh, wait. ‘Kashmir’?”

  “No, none of those.”

  “Are you going to make me work through their entire catalog until I get it right?”

  “Number one, I’m not sure. Number two, I don’t know all the song titles if I did know.”

  “We’ll have to work on this. It’s Zeppelin, Blue.”

  “You’re the famous rock star son of the famous rock star, not me.”

  “What’s your favorite Dig Me Under song, then?”

  “That one’s easy. And no, it’s not ‘Juniper Blue,’ even though, you know, it probably should be, for obvious reasons. It’s ‘The Spell of Memory and Imagination.’”

  “See?” I ask. “Was that so hard? I’ll bet you could do this for lots of artists, maybe even me. What’s your favorite song of mine?”

  “Oh, slow down,” she says, “there’s a scenic overlook coming up. We should go.”

  “It’s dark,” I say. “Will we still be able to see anything scenic?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Juniper shrug one shoulder. “I’ve never been there at night, but it’s worth a shot, right? Where’s your sense of adventure, Gabe?”

  “Oh, very funny,” I say. I hope she never stops joking around with me.

  I watch for signs for the turnoff to the overlook. The narrow road—which I wouldn’t call well lit—ends in a small gravel parking lot with about seven spaces. We’re the only car. Juniper gets out first, and I follow her up a short, narrow path—unlit and scary as hell, branches hanging in our way that she holds back for me—to a broad, semicircular area with a stone wall, waist high, and a large boulder with a plaque. A light shines up from the ground and illuminates the raised letters:

  STUART OVERLOOK, LONE WOLF RIVER

  IN MEMORY OF MATHIAS ROBERT STUART, LIEUTENANT,

  U.S.N.

  BORN MAY 4, 1917

  DULUTH, MINNESOTA

  DIED IN ACTION OFF GUADALCANAL

  FEBRUARY 4, 1943.

  One small streetlamp casts a dim pool of light, but otherwise we’re surrounded by the deep blue of the night sky, filled with countless stars and, in the far-off distance, a swath of vivid green and blue and purple. The colors rain down from the darkness, vertical streams reflected in the black water below. Sharply cut silhouettes of evergreens line the wavering glow. I want to frame it, capture it, carry it home.

  “Holy shit, Blue, is that the northern lights?”

  She steps up to the stone wall and leans against it, looking out into the night sky. “Yes. We can’t always see them, but it’s not uncommon this time of year.”

  “That’s—holy shit,” I say again. I’m not sure what else to say. In all the times I visited Gran for a couple of days or the weeks we spent at the cabin, I never saw the northern lights.

  “This is incredible,” I say quietly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I agree, it’s spectacular,” she says. “But you live in LA. I mean, you have that view from Mulholland Drive and, oh, what about the Griffith Observatory?”

  “Ah, so you’ve seen La La Land,” I say. “It’s not like I spend my time driving around town looking for spectacular views. Mostly I shut myself up in a soundproof room and play guitar.”

  “I’m lucky, I guess,” she says. “I don’t need to look very far to find the beauty around me. Up here, up north, it’s always there, you know? I’ve been going to the park reserve since before I could walk. I’ve hiked every trail, I’ve explored every corner. It’s all right in my backyard. A two-minute walk, and I’m in the park. The overlook—well, you know that’s my favorite place in the world. It’s not as grand or sweeping as the view here, but it’s etched in my heart.”

  I know she’s telling the truth—it’s all over her face and it’s in her every word every day, her every breath. How much she loves the farm, the fate of which essentially lies in my hands as of this morning when I officially turned eighteen. The farm that’s worth enough to solve all my problems but holds much more value for Juniper.

  “How do you know?” I ask gently. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, honestly. But how do you know there’s not something better? Someplace even more amazing? Someplace else that could be your favorite in the whole world?”

  “I don’t,” she says. “I’m not like you, Gabe. I haven’t traveled the world. The only time I’ve flown on an airplane was the trip to LA. I’ve never been anywhere else e
xcept for a family vacation to Mount Rushmore we took the summer after third grade. I’m a farm girl, Gabe. I’m going to be a farm girl my whole life. There aren’t a lot of adventures to travel the world in my future. This is enough.”

  I’m silent for a moment, listening to the rustle of the trees around us, the faint rush of the river below us, Juniper’s soft breathing.

  “But what if you could come back? What if you could see the world and then come back to the place you love best?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Finally, so quietly that I have to strain to hear her, she says, “That’s not how I’m wired, Gabe. Even if I wanted to change, to try something new, I’d have a difficult time with it. Why is it so wrong that I want my world to stay the same as it’s always been? What’s wrong with being content where you are? Or knowing what you want to do with your life and working hard to get there? You of all people should understand that.”

  She sounds sad, worried, even a little nostalgic. Hurt. Her eyes, blue and bright like the glowing waves in the sky, glimmer with unshed tears.

  It hits me then. Except for missing Leona, the farm is exactly the same as it was when Juniper’s father was alive.

  Her breath stutters as I take her hand, slowly, gently, tentatively. I caress the back of it with my thumb. She looks up from our joined hands to my face, and I tighten my grip.

  “I think I see,” I say, and I hope she understands what I’m saying. “I—I can understand that, a little, at least. But when you’re content to stay where you are, you might miss out on someplace even more magical, more beautiful. If I’d stayed in LA, I would have missed this. I would have missed you.”

  Shit, I can hardly look her in the eye. Maybe I’m talking about myself. Maybe I’m feeling something for Juniper Blue that I have no business feeling. But I don’t fucking care. I don’t want to ignore it anymore, that feeling I get when I’m with her, that sense of happiness, the sense that something is filling a hole, deep inside, that I’ve felt most of my life.

  I lift our hands and kiss hers, then tug her into me. I let go, move my hands to cup her cheeks. Her eyes grow wide.