“So,” Logan says.
“So,” I reply, looking over the top of my sunglasses at him.
“What do you think?”
I choose to assume he’s talking about Sliding Rock. “It’s beautiful, really. I can see why you fell in love with it here.”
“But?”
“But I’m an ocean girl. I like diving under waves and boogie boarding. I like soft, white sand that squishes between my toes.”
“You don’t think you could get used to all this?”
Why is he asking me that? Is he envisioning a time when I’d have to get used to Arizona? “I didn’t say that I couldn’t. Anything is possible.” I’m starting to believe that.
Logan nods. Then he puts out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”
We walk in the water, hand in hand, neither of us bothering to ask why or what it means. When it starts getting deeper, we move to the edge and walk on the rocks. They’re so smooth, it’s almost like a man-made water park. Then Logan drops my hand. Matty and Spencer are on top of a nearby ledge waiting their turn to dive in. Matty waves to me before making a perfect swan dive in the water, his lean body entering the creek with hardly a splash.
I don’t know if years from now something more will ever happen between us, but Matty will always be my Matty, even if he’s not destined to be my soul mate. I can’t picture my life without him.
• • •
I’m so relaxed when we get back in the car. My skin has a nice glow and still smells like suntan lotion. I pull a tank top on over my bathing suit and settle into the backseat. I scrounge around in my bag for a file so I can fix the damage I did cutting my nails for my guitar lesson. Even if my nails are super short now, I still want them to look good. Plus, filing my nails is like meditation—helps me sort things out.
Spencer’s driving, and I don’t bother asking how long it will take to get to the Phoenix area; we’ll get there when we get there. We’re spending tonight in a motel near Tempe, where ASU is. Then we’ll be there all day tomorrow, the Fourth of July, before spending one last night in Arizona and Matty, Spencer, and I leave on a red-eye. It feels like summer’s end, even though it’s just getting started. Sigh.
I’m actually looking forward to checking out ASU. I’ve never been to any college campuses before, not even Montclair State and Seton Hall, which are both under a half hour from my house. From the pictures in the brochure, ASU looks like a cool place to spend four years. The grass is green, the sky is blue, and the students are all sporting shorts, sandals, and lightweight hoodies. Despite having no ocean, the endless summer aspect of Arizona totally adds points in its favor, and I could start fresh as a new and improved Rosie if I came to college here. Only Avery and Logan would know about Joey and the car. But are these good enough reasons to apply? I guess if it makes you happy. But who knows what the next year will bring? I wonder if Logan and Avery will even consider me a friend by then or if memories of this trip will be the only thing we share.
As I round out the nails on my left hand, I work my way through the layers of emotion. My thoughts feel like a ball made out of rubber bands, tight, compact, and overlapping. The trip ending, my court date coming, telling Joey to meet me in Phoenix, not returning Lilliana’s call, kissing Spencer, sleeping with Matty, watching the sun set with Logan, losing my phone, losing my mind, losing my heart. What’s going to happen when I get back home?
I bite off a hangnail on my ring finger. Avery is right. There’s no use looking beyond my court date—whatever’s going to happen will happen. That doesn’t mean I can’t have a plan, though. I’ve got to stop letting things just “happen” to me.
I’m imagining taking the elastic ball and throwing it into the desert when Matty’s phone rings. Poor guy. I know it’s for me. He holds up the phone because it’s not my mom and he doesn’t recognize the number. Unfortunately, I do. The rubber bands in my head all snap simultaneously.
“Joey.”
Spencer gasps. Despite my predicament, this makes me smile. “No shit?” he asks.
“No shit,” I say. “I can’t talk to him, Matty. I promised my mom, and Miranda will kill me. Let it go to voice mail.”
Logan sticks his hand out.
“Give it,” he says. I hope Logan talking to Joey doesn’t violate my TRO, I think as Matty hands him the phone.
We listen to Logan’s half of the conversation. “Hello? Who’s this? Joey. What can I do for you, Joey? Rosie? Now, you of all people should know that talking to you could get her in big trouble. How about you give me the message? Don’t worry about who I am. We’ll let it remain a mystery for your crack legal team. . . .” Logan covers the phone and talks to us, “This guy is a douche bag.” Then he talks back into the phone. “Back at you, man. How about you drop the attitude and just tell me what the frig you want. . . . Tell Rosie you’re not going to be in Phoenix on the Fourth of July? What a coincidence; neither is she.” There’s a pause and I’m not sure what Joey is saying, but then Logan says, “Sorry. Still can’t let you talk to her.”
“Tell him I’m taking the red-eye home on Sunday. He can contact my attorney after that.”
Logan passes along the message, then simply hangs up.
“What an a-hole,” Logan says as he tosses the phone back to Matty.
“He wasn’t always,” I mumble. “That was not the Joey I dated.”
“No offense,” Spencer says, “but no one seems to know the Joey you dated.”
“Word,” Matty agrees.
Silenced by the truth, my lame defense stays lodged in my throat. Joey hasn’t dropped the TRO. He knows contacting me is trouble, and he’s only calling me because his girl dumped him and he wants something. How the hell did he get Matty’s number? Lilliana? Maybe. I don’t blame her. It’s my problem, not hers. What does all this say about me, exactly? Why am I the kind of girl who would date a guy like Joey?
I can’t answer that, but I should explain to the guys why Joey’s calling. “It’s my fault. I told him to meet me in Phoenix on the Fourth of July.”
“What?! When?” Matty is incredulous.
“Relax. It was the night before we left. I couldn’t sleep. I took some Benadryl. I messaged him on Facebook. It’s all a blur at this point.”
This last bit of information gets Spencer all excited. “Imagine if he had shown up.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not happening. Like Joey said, he won’t be in Phoenix for the Fourth of July.”
“And like I said, neither will we,” Logan repeats.
“Sure we will,” Spencer says. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
“Change of plans, bro,” Logan says. “Stay on this highway through Phoenix toward Tucson. When we get to Interstate 8, we’re going west.”
• • •
The trip along Interstate 8 brings us through a desert of a different sort. As we approach Yuma, Arizona, and the California border, the sand changes to actual, well, sand. The white, dune kind like we have along the New Jersey shore. It’s beautiful. The late afternoon sun makes me think of Christmas cards depicting the three wise men on camels, traveling along the pristine sand with a brilliant, golden star to guide their way. And then I do see the brilliant golden star, like a halo, up ahead.
“Mickey D’s!” Matty shouts.
It’s not the Star of Bethlehem, but after a long drive, it’s practically the next-best thing.
Logan rushes us through our super-size meals. “Come on,” he urges. He’s piling crumpled napkins and his empty salad container on his tray. “You can eat your fries in the car. I want to cross the mountains before it gets dark.”
I know what’s coming next. Yep, there it is: the finger round-up motion. It hasn’t made an appearance since Texas, but it’s back in full force. Oh, how I’ve missed it.
• • •
The drive over the mountains from Yuma to San Diego is more dangerous than it looks. The mountains are steep, and there are water stations every so often—for overheated cars—alon
g with signs reminding drivers to carry jugs of water to cool their engines while crossing these mountains and the desert.
I’m happy there’s some daylight left when we cross over to the California side and drive toward San Diego. It’s like the whole world springs into Technicolor. Green trees and lawns, petunias, impatiens, pretty yellow flowers I don’t know the name of. Ruddy earth tones had dominated so much of our trip since Texas. It makes the contrast more spectacular. Like that first taste of sugar after you’ve been on a diet.
It’s getting late, but Logan drives until we reach Mission Beach. After we park, I’m the first one out of the car. Matty is right behind me. We both kick off our shoes as soon as our feet touch sand. I look at Matty and don’t even have to say it. We both take off running, like Dorothy and the Scarecrow through the poppy field. I know he’ll get there before me. In a pool, I have a chance, but on land, there’s no way I’ll catch him.
I pull off my top at the edge of the dry sand but don’t bother with my shorts before I dive in. I’ve lost count of how many times in my life I’ve run into crashing waves, but tonight is different. This is the Pacific Ocean. I’ve just driven across the entire country.
I stand with my back to the waves and look toward the shore, beyond Logan and Spencer, the parking lot, the car, the road. I inhale deeply, and it’s like I can feel the distance, every single mile I traveled from New Jersey to this point, right here. The cold water doesn’t bother me. I close my eyes and savor the smell of the ocean, the quiet in my mind, the intensity of the moment. When I open them again, the world snaps back into focus. I hear the sound of the waves, and Matty’s laughter, right before he grabs my shoulders and pushes me under.
• • •
I lick the salt water off my lips as I sit, wrapped in a towel, on the hood of the Taurus watching the ocean and listening to the whoosh of the surf. Even though my bathing suit and shorts are still wet, inside I am warm.
“Wait until tomorrow, Rosie,” Spencer says. “You’ll see how blue it is.”
“Are you dissing the East Coast?” I ask.
“Not at all. But the Atlantic is green. This is the Pacific. We’re talking blue, blue. You’ll see,” Spencer says.
“So, I guess you guys have been to California before?”
“We drove the coastal highway from San Francisco to San Diego. I was eight and Logan was ten.” Spencer pauses. “Our family was more of a family back then.”
“Let’s find someplace to stay,” Logan interjects, before Spencer travels too far down memory lane.
“Thank you,” I say when my eyes meet Logan’s.
“You’re buying your own boogie board tomorrow, Catalano,” Logan says. “And don’t get my car seats wet.” He turns toward the driver’s door and is about to put his index finger in the air when I gently grab his wrist with one hand and push his finger down with the other. “It’s okay. We’re right behind you.”
• • •
The Fourth of July. We’re walking back to the hotel after watching the fireworks over Mission Bay when we pass a restaurant with an outdoor café. There’s a small stage beyond the bar, and a band is doing a sound check. I look at the poster draped behind the drum kit. It’s a sun symbol—the same one that’s on the necklace from my cowboy.
“Hey, I think that’s the band Lucca was talking about! Holy crap. What are the chances? We’ve got to check them out,” I say. I don’t want tonight to end. It’s my last night away and our last night all together, if not forever, then for a long time.
“What kind of music do they play?” Spencer asks.
“No clue.”
“Who cares?” Matty says. “It beats hanging around the hotel. Who knows when I’ll ever be in San Diego again, or anywhere else for that matter.”
As Logan and Spencer walk toward the outdoor café, I stop Matty and throw my arms around his middle. It takes him a moment to recover from my spontaneous display of affection before he hugs me back.
“Uh, Rosie? What’s this for?”
“Everything,” I say into his shirt.
“Are we done now?”
I pull away and look up at him. “Yeah. I think we’re good.”
• • •
I’m pleasantly surprised that the band plays a mixture of power pop and rock—Bruce-like storytelling with smartass, Weezer-type lyrics. Matty and Spencer, the music snobs, stand close to the stage to judge “the chops” of the band, as they put it. I sit on a bar stool, sipping a Diet Coke and accepting the ebb and flow of euphoria and melancholy as both emotions wash over me. Logan sits next to me, and I’m slightly irritated by this girl in a bikini top who’s talking to him while she waits for her drink, but I watch the band and revel in the fact that I don’t really want to talk to anyone at the moment. I don’t have a phone anymore, but even if I did, I don’t want to reach out to anyone on the “outside” right now. Tonight belongs to me and my guys.
I finish my drink, and since Logan is still yapping to this girl about ASU, I make my way toward the stage to hang with Spencer and Matty. As I squish through the crowd, the band launches into a power ballad, evoking a few whoops and some applause from fans obviously familiar with their music. I’m eyeing up my next move to cut through the throng of people when I feel hands on my hips. I hope to God it’s someone I know. I gingerly turn sideways. Logan. Phew. Or maybe not. He presses against my back and sways me slowly back and forth to the music, dancing, but not really dancing. Goose bumps spread from the back of my neck across every inch of my skin. He gently lowers his chin onto the top of my head and wraps one arm across the front of me while keeping his other hand on my hip. I rest my cheek on his forearm and inhale the scent of his cologne, the scent of him. As we sway back and forth to the music, it takes every ounce of self-control I have to not turn around, put my hands on his shoulders, and—
Logan moves his lips to my ear. “I want to do so much more than kiss you, Rosie.”
I know what he means. My own x-rated thoughts start with a kiss, then progress to me running my hands under his shirt and down toward the button of his jeans. I spin around and touch the tip of my nose to his. Our lips are about a centimeter apart. Either I stop right now or not at all.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“That I’m going to be in Arizona and, after tomorrow, you’re not. You?”
“I’m thinking about something Avery said and . . . I’ve still got a lot of things I need to work out.” I stand on my tiptoes. This time I’m the one whispering in his ear. “To be continued,” I say. “I hope.”
When I pull back, he looks confused or hurt or both. But he doesn’t press me. Unlike Joey, Logan is not the kind of guy who would start something he couldn’t finish, and maybe for the first time ever, neither am I. When the song ends, so does our moment. Sometimes, it really is best to do nothing.
Chapter 18
For as long as I can remember, our family has been renting the same beach house at the New Jersey shore. Rentals begin and end on Saturdays, with the standard “checkout” time being eleven in the morning. It doesn’t matter if we’re there for a week or a month, come Saturday, no one ever wants to leave. So every year, for as long as I can remember, we kid ourselves. We say: “Even though we have to be out of the house by eleven, we can still spend the rest of the day on the beach. Right?” But guess what? That never happens. Because once we’ve packed the car with bedding to boogie boards and vacuumed up sand from the hardwood floors, the vacation is over. Stretching it a few more hours wouldn’t feel right. Our time at the beach ends when we turn in our key.
That’s how I feel when we arrive in Tempe on Sunday. We’re taking a red-eye home, so we still have the entire day to look around, check out the ASU campus and Logan’s dorm, and grab some dinner. But the collective mood of our little foursome makes me realize our road trip ended when we crossed the mountains, out of California back into Arizona.
It’s nearly dark when Logan pulls up curbside at Sky Harbor Airport.
On the ride over, I obsessed about how I was going to say good-bye. Should I kiss him on the cheek? Tell him I’ll call him when I get home? Ask him when we’ll see each other again? In the end, it turns out to be none of the above. Logan gets out of the driver’s seat, walks around the back, and pops the trunk. I stand on the sidewalk, fiddling with my hair, as he helps the boys unload our bags before shaking Matty’s hand and giving Spencer a brotherly hug. Then he turns to me, opens his arms to bear-hug width, and says, “Rosie.” I step toward him and give him an awkward squeeze with my backpack slung over one shoulder. When I look into his eyes, I want to cry. I get it; there’s too much to say, so we aren’t saying anything. Almost. I do, however, manage to whisper, “Thanks for the ride.”
Twenty-five minutes later, we’ve made it through security and I’m standing at a newsstand, deciding on snacks and reading material for the five-hour plane ride home. It’s an overnight flight, but I know I’m not going to be able to sleep. I push away the image of Logan pulling away from the curb in the Taurus and the overwhelming sensation that my home for the past nine days has left me. I shake it off. I have to. This trip put me back together, and I refuse to get all torn apart again. So there, Logan Davidson. Enjoy your 120-degree Rosie-free Arizona summer. I’m just about to reach for one of the magazines listing the one hundred best college deals when Matty practically tackles me and pulls me into the aisle with the paperbacks.
“Get your hands off me, you big goon,” I say. By now, he knows I mean “big goon” in the best-possible way.
“Joey’s here,” Spencer says.
“Oh, Dios mío!” Apparently emergencies turn me into my mother. “How can that be? He said he wasn’t coming.”
“He lied,” Matty says. “Big surprise.”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Spencer, follow him and try to find out what flight he’s on. If he’s on our plane, we’ll simply change our tickets and take the next flight home. No need to panic, right?” I take a deep breath. “Spencer, what are you doing? Get going.”
How My Summer Went Up in Flames Page 17