Cross Country Hearts

by Suzanne August

  He doesn’t say this awkwardly like he would if he felt embarrassed about revealing he’d listened in on my phone conversation. I scowl. “Eavesdropping, King?”

  He doesn’t react to my use of his last name, just easily replies, “No. They put me in the room next to yours. The walls are thin.”

  “So, you thought it was okay to listen in while I talked to my mother?”

  Now he rolls his eyes. He holds up his bag of Asian food, and it looks like he’s bought half the restaurant with how big the bag is. “No. I left and got dinner.”

  Not for the both of us. That’s what his eyes tell me. He’s an open book right now, when for most of the day, he’s been hard to read, all rigid shoulders and stony expressions. Something’s telling me that he chooses what he wants me to know and what he doesn’t. He can close the book on me if he wants to. Jasper King is weird like that.

  The food bag looks more appetizing than what the tiny diner next to this motel has, which looks like salads and what the sign in the window proclaims are ‘healthy and vegan friendly burgers.’ I hold out a hand toward Jasper. “Share with me.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because I paid for your motel room,” I say, annoyed. “I’m starving, and you look like you have enough food to last a week.”

  “Hell no.” He scowls. “I bought this with my money.”

  “And I paid for your room.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can steal my food, Pierce. I only have enough for one.”

  I raise both my eyebrows. I don’t know why, but the fact that he can raise only one and I can’t, irritates me. “Pierce doesn’t work as well as using King.”

  “You call me King; I’ll call you Pierce.”

  He’s so annoying. “Whatever. You’re seriously not going to share?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Maybe because I was a decent person and paid for your hotel room,” I repeat.

  “You glared my way like you wanted to strangle me while you were handing over your credit card,” he retorts. “I don’t count that as a favor.”

  “I paid for it because you said you didn’t have enough money. I was being the better person. Now you’ve got food, and I literally have no idea where anything good in this town is. I’ve had a horrible day, and my mother hasn’t sent me any more money yet, so I don’t even know if I should even spend what little I have left on food. You owe me, King.”

  He glares at me in response. He’s not a good person, I think.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “You act like I’m a horrible person.”

  He scoffs. “Says the person who spread the rumor that I don’t wash my clothes and wear the same shirt every day of the week. People believed it.”

  “It’s not true?” I ask, looking pointedly at the black shirt he’s wearing. It’s a variation of the same dark shirts he always wears. They all look the same. “Because it looks like it is.”

  If possible, his eyes get even darker. “And you wonder why I painted you ugly.”

  “I’m not ugly,” I say. “Not on the outside and not on the inside. You don’t know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  He pushes off the wall and turns to open the door to his motel room. He makes to open the door, but before he gets inside, I break. I’m so frustrated. The entire day has done nothing but go downhill ever since we left Boston.

  I’m starting to wonder if I really prefer Jasper with me, in the same car, over just driving down to Jacksonville myself. Because I’m not even sure anymore if it makes me feel better having him in the car over having no one. And the longer we’re together, the more I’m wondering if he feels the same about choosing to get in the same car with me over getting on an airplane.

  Couple that with the anxiety that’s been pooling and colliding inside of me the entire day, I take it out on him. I know it’s wrong, but I let it out on Jasper King. I burst. “Why are you so scared of planes, anyway? If you didn’t want to drive with me to Florida and had just gotten on a plane, we wouldn’t be here, together, right now.”

  Jasper freezes midway into his room. He turns to face me. “I’m scared of flying in airplanes.”

  I cross my arms. “Airplanes are safer than cars.”

  “Even if I had to be in a car with you for the next week, I still wouldn’t get on an airplane.” His tone is cool, unamused. He’s done with this conversation before it even started.

  I match my tone to his. “An airplane wouldn’t have broken down like my car did today. You could’ve gotten on an airplane and taken a pill. You would’ve slept the whole way to Florida, and then we wouldn’t have to be here.”

  “Right, together with you,” he says. “I don’t fly, June.”

  “Yeah, because you’re a coward.”

  The hard look he gives me right then is frigid and passionless. It’s ice that stays frozen even in the warmest of summers. His tone matches the look as he spits out, “My parents died in a plane crash. I’m not the coward, June. You are.”

  Then he finally slips into his room and slams the door so hard I feel the vibration through my shoes.

  I’m left standing outside, speechless. Slowly, I raise my hands to my head, drawing my fingers through my hair and pulling it back. I turn to the railing, but when I look out at the view again, the sun has dipped behind the mountains, and the painted hues in the sky are gone. There’s only the darkening blue of the night sky. It’s almost colorless.

  My parents died in a plane crash.

  For the first time since Jasper King revealed his painting of me, I feel like the horrible and ugly person he portrayed me to be.

  Five

  “You can’t be serious.”

  When I knock on Jasper’s door the next morning, he doesn’t answer. I knock again and wait. Silence. I press my ear close to the door, and I think I hear movement, but I can’t be sure. I’m not irritated he doesn’t answer me. More than anything else, I’m frustrated and anxious about getting to Jacksonville, my mother, and Jasper King.

  After our encounter on the balcony the night before, I haven’t seen or heard from him, which isn’t surprising considering we have two different rooms. After he disappeared inside his own, I walked to the diner and treated myself to the cheapest meal on the menu, which was a vegan burger I’m personally not a fan of. I sat alone. I talked to no one. I didn’t even call Georgia, even though I know she’d listen to everything and then say the right words to make me feel better.

  I have no idea if Jasper stayed inside his motel room all night, but even though he said the walls were thin, I haven’t heard anything.

  “King!” I knock on his door again.

  Nothing.

  I sigh. “I’m going to go get the car! If you’re not ready by the time I get back in an hour, I’m leaving.”

  Knowing that’s an empty threat, and with my shoulders hunched, I walk away from his room and down the stairs. I try not to feel ashamed about last night. After all, how could I have known how his parents died? I didn’t even know they had died, but deep down, I know I shouldn’t have provoked him or asked—well, demanded—for him to share his dinner. It’s not right to say I’d had a bad day when his’ was probably just as horrible.

  I sigh again as I hand over my room key to the receptionist at the front desk. She tells me to have a good day, but somehow, I have a strong feeling that I won’t. I leave without saying more than three words to her and head across the street to the mechanic.

  I try to remind myself that I hardly know Jasper, and what happened with his parents is proof enough. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s the weird, socially awkward loner of our high school. Still, I know deep in my gut that no matter how much I dislike Jasper King, it wasn’t right to take my frustrations out on him.

  The mechanic makes me wait for more than thirty minutes before he shows himself in the waiting area. When he sees it’s only me, his lips turn down, but he doesn’t ask where Jasper is.

  Whe
n he hands over the keys, I say, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  Dwight’s frown deepens. “Hm.”

  Maybe he’s not the forgiving type, and really, I’m not the type to give apologies. Besides, I’m still frustrated that it took so long to get the car fixed.

  When I finally get into the car and turn the key to start the engine, I’ve been gone from the motel for over an hour. I’m anxious to get back on the road and put some serious distance between Boston and us.

  But when I knock on Jasper’s door, there’s still no answer.

  “King!” I yell. “Come on! We need to leave!”

  I knock a few more times and yell his name, but there’s nothing. He can’t be ignoring me for last night, can he? I’m his ride to Jacksonville. He needs me. I decide to go ask the receptionist.

  “Who?” the young woman asks me. She’s a few years older than me, if.

  “Bleached hair,” I describe. “He’s tall and fit because he’s a swimmer. He’s probably wearing a black shirt? Has a backpack for his stuff.”

  Suddenly, the woman’s cheeks ting pink, and the corners of her mouth lift. “Oh, him. He checked out about twenty minutes ago.”

  I watch her warily. Jasper King has no charm, at least not that I’ve seen. Objectively, yeah, maybe he’s a little attractive. Still, I can’t see why she’d think he’s cute if there’s anything to go by her sudden blush.

  “Do you know where he went?” I ask.

  “He asked where the bus station was,” she tells me. “I think he’s walking.”

  What the hell? He can’t have taken me for my word when I said I’d leave him here. “Where’s the bus station?”

  The woman gives me some directions, and as soon as she’s done, I book out of the motel and start the car. I’m incredulous. I can’t believe stupid Jasper King believed me.

  I’m only two minutes down the road, heading in the direction of the bus station, when I spot a figure walking on the side of the road. There’s a small black backpack slung over a shoulder. Matching the backpack is a dark-colored—not entirely black—sweater, and bleached hair peaks out from the sweater’s hood. I let out a deep breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

  He doesn’t look up, and as I slow down the car to pull over, he keeps his head down and his hands deep in his pockets. I have to honk the horn to get his attention, and I only feel a little regret when he jumps in surprise, his head snapping up and eyes narrowing on me in the car. I also feel a little satisfaction.

  I slow the car to a stop and roll down the window, shouting out of it. “What the hell are you doing?”

  His expression and gaze are blank, not at all like the open book from last night when I could tell exactly what he was thinking. Again, there’s another unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He reaches up to take it between his fore and middle fingers, saying dryly, “I’m walking.”

  “Why?”

  “You said you’d be back in an hour.”

  His voice is as blank as his expression. His stance is laid back, like always, but I don’t think I imagine how his grip on his backpack strap on his shoulder tightens. Is he annoyed with me? Probably.

  I try not to glare at him, although I want to. “Did you actually think I would leave you behind? What the hell, King? My sister would kill me if I left her fiancé’s groomsman in a rundown motel in the middle of nowhere Connecticut.”

  He shrugs.

  I fight the urge to curse aloud and reach over to the passenger door, pushing it open. “Get in.”

  “Are you going to get us in another accident?” he asks.

  He doesn’t make a move to get in the car, and I can’t hold the door open, so I let it fall closed. I lean back against my seat and take a deep breath, already annoyed beyond measure, and it’s not yet past ten in the morning.

  “No,” I say simply, leaning back over the passenger seat so I can look Jasper King in the eyes.

  He doesn’t immediately respond.

  I bite my lip. I wasn’t going to say anything about last night. Where Jasper and I are concerned, I feel it’s better to leave things unsaid, like how we’re not supposed to say anything to each other if we have nothing nice to say. Yet clearly, the deal we agreed to crashed and burned before it could even start. Maintaining silence and ignoring each other probably isn’t going to get us through the trip to Jacksonville, either. I have to believe that because I don’t think he’ll get in the car if I don’t address last night.

  “Look…” I start, and then I pause. Jasper and I never had a real conversation until yesterday, and now I want to apologize to him. What am I supposed to say to someone I barely like?

  “What?”

  I bring my gaze back up to his and hold it. After another breath, I say, “I didn’t have a good talk with my mom last night. It made everything bad about yesterday worse. Still, it’s not an excuse for our conversation. I shouldn’t have taken out my frustration on you.”

  His mouth turns down into a frown, and do I imagine his hands tightening even more on his backpack strap? Okay, he’s obviously not going to respond to that. I plow on. “I know I threatened to leave you behind this morning, but I’m not that horrible a person. I don’t want to ruin my sister’s wedding.”

  Silence.

  I take another breath. “I’m sorry.”

  There’s another long stretch of silence, and I have no idea what else I’m supposed to say or how I’m supposed to convince him to get in the car.

  But it’s Jasper who finally breaks this silence. “Are you actually sorry, or are you just trying to get me in the car?”

  If I’m honest, it’s a little bit of both. I desperately want him in the car, so we can finally get the hell out of Connecticut, but I do honestly feel bad about last night. I’m not going to admit the first part to him, though.

  “Okay,” I say, going with honesty because I’m starting to think Jasper King knows how to read people ridiculously well. “I know I’ve never been the nicest person to you. That I’ve made fun of you when you were within hearing. You’ve been an asshole towards me, too, though, and don’t pretend you haven’t. But about last night… I didn’t know about your parents, Jasper. For that, I really am sorry.”

  Jasper’s expression doesn’t change, and neither does his relaxed stance. I wait for him to respond—because really, I don’t think there’s anything else I can say. Looking up at him, though, I have no idea if he’s going to forgive me and get in the car. Judging by his unmoved eyes and how he’s still frowning, he probably doesn’t care about the apology.

  At last, Jasper finally moves. He leans down, so we’re almost eye to eye and rests his arms on the lowered window, peering in at me. “Want to know how you can make it up to me, Pierce?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You can take me to the Met.”

  What?

  “You want me to take you where?” I ask, dumbfounded. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this.

  “The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “No,” I say immediately. “No way, King.”

  “Well…” he shrugs and starts to pull away from the window.

  “King,” I snap, then I try to reign in my sharp words. It’s the anxiety inside me talking. “Did you miss the part where we have to be in Jacksonville by tomorrow?”

  He peers down at me. “What’s today?”

  “Sunday, but what does that—”

  “The wedding isn’t until Saturday. We have plenty of time.”

  “We can’t.”

  “If you’re not willing to go to New York City,” he begins, “then I’m not willing to get in the car.”

  I blanch, and although I know that this must be as much as an empty threat as mine was this morning, I still say. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  I tear my gaze from him and run a hand over my eyes, completely frustrated now. What did I even apologize for? Whatever I thought was coming—like that Jasper King might not get in the car because o
f last night—I didn’t expect this. This is like another form of blackmail. How does this keep happening to me?

  “What is so special about the Met?” I ask.

  I hear the laugh in his voice when he answers, “Have you missed how I’m an artist?”

  I don’t answer. That’s a stupid question. This time, he actually does laugh, and it sounds weird on him. I’ve never heard him laugh. He’s always been dry words and dark glares.

  “It’s been my dream for a long time to go there, and I’m not about to miss out on this chance,” he tells me.

  I look back at him, but I still can’t understand what he’s thinking. Besides the laugh, there’s no other indication about what’s going on in his head. I don’t know if Jasper is bluffing or not about getting in the car only if I agree to take him. Yet, with the way Jasper is always relaxed and has always done his own thing in high school, I wouldn’t be surprised if he really did walk to the bus stop and buy a bus ticket.

  I think about how Carlisle is his cousin, and April said they were close. If Jasper is a groomsman, then they probably are. And being a groomsman, would Jasper want to risk ruining the wedding? But it sounds like he’s not in a hurry. After all, a bus isn’t going to take five days to reach Jacksonville. Going by Jasper time, we have plenty of time to stop at the Met and still stay on track to get to Jacksonville. To get Jasper into the car, what could going to New York for a few hours hurt?

  “Fine,” I finally say, and it feels like I’ve been saying that a lot in the past couple of days.

  “Fine, what?” Jasper asks.

  I grit my teeth and repeat, “Fine, we can go to the Met.”

  “Excellent.” He springs into motion, popping the cigarette back in his mouth. He reaches for the car door, and as soon as he’s slipped into the passenger seat and closed the door, I say, “But we have to gain ground later today. I’m not going to stay more than two nights in a hotel. We need to get to Jacksonville by tomorrow night.”

  Jasper shrugs, throwing his backpack in the backseat. “Sounds good to me.” He gestures to the road. “Drive away, Pierce.”