“This place is wild,” Cy says, looking around the studio. He walks over to the window at the back and looks down at the park. “I should have brought a picnic blanket. But I guess it’s pretty dark anyway.”
“Ooh, I have an idea!” I kneel down in front of the table in the center of the room, and I pull out the rug I saw stashed there on my first day. “We can make a picnic of our own. It might be a little dusty, though.”
Cy puts the paper bag down and helps me unroll the rug. It’s not as dusty as I feared, but it’s worn so thin in some places that the color is almost nonexistent. When it’s laid out, Cy unloads our dinner.
“So tell me what you’re working on,” he says, handing me a paper plate full of food.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Hmmm. Well, I can tell you one thing about it already.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“It’s making a mess.” He nods over at one of Fiona’s many scuffed-up side tables. It’s covered in broken pieces of tile, and the floor is white with dust.
“I used a hammer to break up a few of the floor tiles I got from YiaYia. It got a little nuts.”
“It’s on your face, too,” he says, reaching out to rub a streak of white powder off my nose. “So what are you going to do with the broken tiles? Tell me you’re going to make a dress for that.” He points his fork at the half-mannequin Fiona got at the junkyard, which has been leaning against the sofa for the last few days. “That thing freaks me out. What happened to its legs?”
“Fiona and I cut them off. She’s going to dress the top in her best clothes, then put it in there.” I point at the cage, sitting on the other side of the room.
Cy shakes his head. “Artists, man. Y’all are weird.”
When we’re finished with dinner, Cy stacks the paper plates and containers, then walks over to the wall and turns off the lights.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He comes back to the rug and holds out his hands. “Come with me.”
Cy hauls me to my feet, grabs the paper bag, and leads me over to the windows overlooking the park. The moonlight shines into the studio, turning what was a bright and messy space into something calm and lovely.
“I know this is going to sound sappy, but I wanted to tell you how happy I am,” he says. “I didn’t think you were ever going to change your mind about us. But I’m glad you did.”
I open my mouth to respond, but realize I have no idea what to say. Did kissing in the woods mean we’re together now? And if we are, what does that really mean? Will I have to give up on—
No. I can’t worry about this, not right now. I have work to do tonight, and a show tomorrow. Everything else can wait. It has to.
“I’m happy too,” I say.
Cy reaches down into the bag and pulls out two plastic cups and a bottle of champagne. It’s still got a sticker on it, but he quickly pulls it off.
I gasp. “Where did you get that?”
“Your YiaYia gave it to me,” he says with a grin.
I laugh as he pulls off the black cage covering the top of the bottle. “Watch out,” he says, and yanks on the cork. It makes a loud pop! sound, and some of the champagne comes bubbling over the edge. I quickly bend down and catch it in my mouth.
“Too good to waste,” I say, wiping my mouth.
He pours two cups and hands one to me.
“What should we toast to?” I ask.
“Your project?”
“Nah. Something bigger.”
“Let’s see. . . .” He wraps his arm around my waist. I give him a kiss, so light our lips hardly touch.
“How about we toast to that?” he says.
“Definitely.”
We clink our cups together, which doesn’t make much noise at all, and take a sip. The champagne is bubbly and slightly sweet, and it makes me feel light-headed almost immediately. “Why don’t we drink this all the time?”
“Probably because we can’t afford it.”
“Oh, right.” He laughs. “We will someday, though, and when we do, we’ll drink champagne every night before bed.”
“In the moonlight.”
“In the moonlight,” he agrees.
CHAPTER 21
Fiona’s leather couch is warm against my skin. I throw up a hand to block the light streaming through her window. After Cyrus left, I worked late into the night, finally collapsing onto the couch just before three a.m. But I did it. I finished. Not even the crick in my neck from sleeping funny can ruin how great I feel.
I arrive back at YiaYia’s an hour later, my box of supplies digging into my arms as I struggle to carry it, my overnight bag weighing heavy on my back. Luckily, I left my piece at Fiona’s, propped up against the wall under the giant windows. She said she’d pick it up in two hours, just enough time for it to dry before the show this afternoon.
Halfway up the driveway, I hear a crash from inside the house. I run the last ten feet to the door. But before I can put my box down and get my key out of my pocket, the door opens.
Mom’s eyes are red-rimmed, like she’s been crying. “Did you know?”
Cold dread creeps up my spine. “Know what?”
She turns on her heel, leaving me standing in the doorway. I drop my box by the front door and follow her into the kitchen, but I stop short at the sight of Dad seated at the table, head in his hands.
Shit.
Mom stands between us. “Did you know your father lost his job?”
I try to catch Dad’s eye, but he’s still staring down at the table.
“Well?” she demands.
“Yes.” I swallow hard. “I knew.”
“So everyone knows but me.” She sinks into a chair, her face contorting with sadness. “I was going to take money out of our savings account to buy you flowers for your big show tonight—”
My heart constricts. “Mom—”
“—but the account was overdrawn. So I asked about it, and . . . and . . .” She lets out a sob and turns to Dad. “You should have told me, Peter. You should have told me as soon as you found out. We’re a team.” She rounds on me. “And you should have told me last night. Or days ago, in the kitchen, when I asked if you’d noticed anything was wrong. You knew I was worried and you said nothing!”
“I wanted to, Mom, but I couldn’t—”
“Because he told you not to, right?” She shakes her head. “The two of you . . . Have you forgotten everything this family is about? We make decisions together, or not at all. If we can’t be honest with one another, if we can’t tell the truth, then we have nothing.”
My eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “What’s too late?”
Dad lets out a long, deep sigh, and for once I understand what Mom means when she warns us about bad energy. The whole kitchen is full of it.
“We might as well get everyone in here at once,” Mom says, pushing away from the counter. Her movements are sluggish and heavy, like she’s sleepwalking through water. I reach out for her hand, but she ignores me and keeps walking.
Dad finally looks at me. I can tell he wants to say something, but I look down at the table. He’s lied to Mom for weeks, and I let him drag me into it. I want to go back to the moment in Fiona’s studio when I finished my work and collapsed onto the couch. Or to last night, staring into Cy’s eyes as I took that first sip of champagne. Or to two nights ago, when Cy’s lips first touched mine. No, I want to go back even further. I want to go back to the moment when I agreed to keep this secret, and take it back.
This is as much my fault as his.
Mom appears in the doorway. Her face is so still it could be made of stone. “They’re on their way.”
Five minutes later, the families are crowded into YiaYia’s living room, covering every available surface. YiaYia herself is perched on a chair in the corner, her eyes wide as she watches everyone talk
ing over one another. I take a seat on the edge of the couch next to Rodney. Across the living room table, Cy frowns. He can tell something is wrong. They all can.
Mom edges past us to join Dad in front of the fireplace. She stands next to him, but they don’t touch. They don’t even look at each other.
“What’s going on?” Rodney asks.
Cy leans forward. “I heard your mom say we’re taking a vote.”
I dig my fingers into the sofa cushion. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be serious.
Dad clears his throat, and we all look up at him. The tip of the sunburst painting peeks out from behind his head, like a sharp, multicolored crown. The Fallen King of the Wanderers.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” Dad says, quieting everyone. “The truth is, things have been hard for the Rhodes family lately. I lost my biggest client a few weeks ago, and work has been slow for months. We’re pretty much broke.”
I’ve been waiting almost two weeks for Dad to tell everyone the truth, but now that I’m sitting here, watching him admit it, I just want to cover my ears.
“Oh, sweetheart,” YiaYia says. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was ashamed.”
I look around the room, expecting everyone to be shifting nervously in their seats. But instead Jeff leans forward and says, “It’s not your fault.”
Dad shakes his head. “Maybe not, but the way I acted after it happened sure is.” He looks around the room, and his eyes settle on me. “I wasn’t fair to the people who love me, who depend on me. I tried to handle it all on my own, and I just made things worse. For everyone. And for that . . . I’m really sorry.”
Dad offers his hand to Mom. “I’m especially sorry that I didn’t tell you, Geri. We’re a team, right?”
For one terrible second, I don’t think she’s going to take his hand. I’m not sure I’d blame her. But then her fingers close around his, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“If I know anything for sure,” Dad says, “it’s that travelers are strongest when they’re working together.”
“Hear, hear!” the McAlisters say from their spot on the floor.
Dad clears his throat, and I see the beginning of a red blush creep up his neck. “I also have some news. I just got off the phone with my old boss, Mark. He doesn’t have any contract web design work, but he’s still looking for a Director of Strategic Initiatives to help with a major event he puts on every fall.”
“What does that mean?” Rodney asks.
“It means your dad has been offered a job working for Mark, but only for half the year,” Mom says. Her voice shakes a little, but she continues. “If he takes it . . . we’d be settling down in Charleston.”
The living room explodes with protests, so loud that I jerk back in my seat. Across the coffee table, Jeff throws his hands up in disgust. “You’re selling out.”
I press my hand to my chest. It’s like something is bearing down on me, so hard I can hardly breathe. Settling down? What about Mom? She loves traveling, it’s her whole life. And what about the families? Will they keep going without us?
What about Cyrus and me?
“Calm down!” Dad says. “I’m not selling out, okay? I’m just doing what I have to, to take care of my family.”
Across the coffee table, Cy searches my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for—a sign that it’s going to be okay? That we’ll get through this? Whatever it is, I can’t give it to him. I’m as lost as he is. “You’re not going to travel anymore,” he says, his voice so quiet that a moment ago I wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the shouting.
“We’d keep traveling,” Dad insists. “Just not year-round. We would still be with y’all for half the year, but from June through December we’d be in Charleston. Probably in the RV this first year, but once we’ve saved up some money, we’ll rent a small house or an apartment. We’d live a normal life.”
The words “normal life” jolt me. “There’s nothing normal about this, Dad, not for us. Plus, you both love traveling full-time. It’s who you are.”
“The only thing we’ve ever wanted was to provide you kids with the best possible life we could,” Dad says. “Right now that means settling down for half the year.”
“What about you, Mom?”
She looks down at her hands, and I can see her struggling not to spin her rings around her fingers. “I love traveling, and I’d miss everyone so much. But things have changed, and we need to change with them.” She looks up at me, and I’m surprised to see the corner of her mouth curl into a smile. “Seeing the way you’ve succeeded here, Dessa . . . it’s been eye-opening.” She puts her hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Maybe this is our next adventure.”
Dad nods gratefully at her. “But nothing’s decided,” Dad says, looking around at everyone. “We want to know how all of you feel about this. That’s why we asked you here. So we can vote.”
“You’re going to vote on this?” YiaYia says. “But it’s your life.”
“That’s exactly why we’re voting,” Mom says. “Because it’s an important decision that’ll affect everyone.” She turns to me. “Especially you, Dessa.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“If I’m going to take this job, we’ll have to leave right away.”
“Right away . . . meaning tomorrow?”
Dad grimaces. “In an hour.”
I jump to my feet. “Dad, the show is today. I can’t leave.”
“Believe me, I did everything I could to convince Mark that starting a week or two later would be fine. But he’s looking for someone right away, and I’m not exactly in a position to argue with him.” His voice drops. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had any other choice.”
I look back and forth between my parents, panic rising inside me. “But—but why do I have to go? Why can’t I just stay here?”
“We’re not breaking up this family again,” Mom says, her hands curling into fists. “We’re all going to do this together, or not at all.”
“But—”
“I said no!”
I sink back down to the couch, my cheeks hot with frustration. So that’s it. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve learned . . . once again, it’s all going to come down to a stupid vote.
“It’s time,” Mom says stiffly. She pulls out the beat-up San Francisco Giants hat from where it was stuffed between two couch cushions.
“I’ve got paper,” Mrs. M says softly, pulling a wrinkled sheet out of her purse.
“And I’ve got pens.” Rodney reaches under the couch and pulls out a blue and a red marker. “I dropped these last night. I knew leaving them there was a good idea.”
Rodney and Mrs. M pass the materials over to my mom, who quickly rips the paper into a bunch of pieces. “You all know the rules. Y for “yea” if we should take half the year off from traveling, or N for “nay” if you don’t think this is the right decision. You can also leave it blank if you don’t want to vote, but I hope you will.”
We pass the paper around, everyone taking a slip, and then Rodney’s markers start to make the rounds. Mom is the first person to use the red pen. The felt tip hovers over her piece of paper, and I can practically see her fears scrolling above her head. Will we really still travel? What if we hate Charleston? What if the families fall apart? But she glances over at my dad, who’s studying the ground carefully as he waits for his turn, and something comes over her face. It’s not peace, exactly—I can still tell by the crease in her forehead that she’s nervous—but she doesn’t look scared anymore. She looks determined.
Mom marks her page, then passes the marker on. One by one the votes are cast. “Yea” for a new adventure that will tear us apart for months at a time, “nay” for staying together even though my dad is struggling to pay our bills. It might seem like an easy decision, but I can feel the atmosphere in the room change, like how the air gets thick and still just before a tornado.
“Here,” Jef
f grunts, and passes Cy the red pen. He looks down at the paper clutched between his fingers. I don’t want to see the look on his face when he casts his vote. I don’t want to know his answer.
The blue pen finally comes to me. I grip it so hard my knuckles turn white. My head is a swirl of questions, each one battling to the top. We’ve all been together for so long—how can we give up traveling? What the hell are we going to do in Charleston? And what about Fiona’s show? I busted my ass putting it together, and I deserve to see how it turns out. Not to mention seeing my own piece hanging in a gallery. How can I just give that up?
Someone clears their throat, and I look up to find Cy watching me, even though we’re supposed to give one another privacy during a vote. I try to read his expression, but he looks just as conflicted as I feel. We’ve known each other for years, but it feels like we’ve just found each other. How can I vote for a life without him?
I lower the felt tip to the paper, but almost immediately pull it up again. This is an impossible choice. I want to be a good daughter, and I want to do what’s best for my family. I don’t want to let them down. But I also want to be happy.
“Has everyone cast their vote?” Mom asks.
I look up at the sound of her voice, and my gaze lands on the sunburst hanging behind her. In the warm light of the living room, the sloppy yellow brushstrokes and stiff ridges of orange paint come alive. It’s not perfect, but there’s something undeniably right about it.
I couldn’t see that back then, but I see it now. When I made it, I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t second-guess myself. I let go of everything I’d learned about the “right” way to do things, and this beautiful, messy, joyous painting was the result.
“I don’t need to vote.” I crumple the paper in my hand. “I’m staying here.”
CHAPTER 22
The vote passes five to three. My family is leaving Santa Fe, and settling down in Charleston.
Your Destination Is on the Left Page 20