Guyaholic (16 page)

I drive for two straight hours. I pass car dealerships and strip malls. I pass Wal-Marts and Dollar Tree stores. I pass signs for casinos and signs for Gamblers Anonymous. After a while the landscape gets more remote, just sky, plains, and the occasional dust cloud.

The horizon is streaked with reds and oranges. It’s the most incredible sunset I’ve ever seen. I try my mom’s phone a few more times, but it keeps bouncing right to voice mail. I leave her a message that I’ll be arriving in San Antonio later tonight, so I need directions to her house.

As the sky turns darker and my car climbs into the rocky hills of southern Oklahoma, I lose cell-phone reception.
Damn.
I still haven’t heard back from my mom. Then again, I have three hundred miles left to go, so I’m sure she’ll call at some point.

It’s eight thirty as I cross the border into Texas. I’m hungry and thirsty and low on gas, and even though my phone is working again, I still haven’t heard anything and it’s starting to stress me out. I really do need my mom’s address, especially since I don’t know Steve’s last name, so I can’t even call directory assistance.

I exit the highway and head toward a truck stop. Everywhere I look, there are neon signs for triple-X movies and fantasy hot spots. If my grandparents knew where I was, they’d croak. We didn’t discuss their stance on porn-filled strips, but I did promise them I wouldn’t drive at night.

As soon as I step out of the car, some guys by the gas pumps hoot at me in Spanish. I want to tell them to fuck off, but the only phrase I remember from Spanish class is
Where’s the train station?
so I lock the door and head inside.

As I’m waiting in line at Subway, I notice that the man in front of me is wearing a ten-gallon hat. The three women behind me, in skintight jeans and cowboy boots, are comparing notes about firearms. I am definitely not in Brockport anymore.

I eat a roast beef sub and carry a jumbo Coke back to the car. The hecklers are gone, so I drive over to the pumps, fill up my tank, and leave another message for Aimee. Then I open my atlas and trace my finger down to Dallas, through Austin, all the way to San Antonio.

Somewhere south of Waco, I’m so tired I want to die.

It’s past midnight. Even though the traffic was congested around Fort Worth, there’s hardly anyone on the road now, just a few lonely rigs chugging through the night.

I can’t believe how far I’ve driven today. It’s been three hundred miles since Oklahoma City. And then, with my earlier trip from Missouri, I’ve done more than six hundred miles in less than twenty-four hours.

I’m blasting my music and sipping the warm, watery Coke and slapping my cheeks to stay awake when, all of a sudden, my phone rings. I swerve to the right, turn down the volume, and glance at the caller ID:
AIMEE
.

“Hang on a sec!” I shout into the phone. There’s an exit coming up, so I quickly turn off, steer down the frontage road, and pull into an empty rest stop. This way, I can find paper and write down the directions to my mom’s house.

As soon as I’ve parked, I pick up the phone again. “Where have you been? Didn’t you get my messages?”

“I haven’t had a chance to check. . . .” my mom says. Her voice is groggy, like she’s been sleeping for a long time. “I noticed some missed calls and —”

“Guess what? I’ve just driven through Waco, so I’m about three hours from San Antonio. Can you believe it? I was at my hotel, and I realized I was so close, I should just go for it.”

“Oh no.”

“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m actually . . . I’m on Padre Island. I didn’t think you were coming until Monday.”

I tighten my grip on the phone. “Where’s that?”

“Oh, hon . . .” She blows her nose. “Steve and I broke up yesterday morning, and I needed to get away. You know how it is. . . .”

“Where’s Padre Island?”

“He’ll be staying with his brother for a few weeks while I figure out my plans, but I was knocking around that house and —”

“Where’s Padre Island?” I ask again.

“It’s two hundred and fifty miles south of San Antonio . . . right near the Mexican border.”

“I still have a few more hours,” I say, “so if you leave now, we could both arrive in San Antonio around the same time.”

Aimee doesn’t respond. In the long silence that follows, I have this feeling that now, more than ever, is our moment of truth. I’m basically saying,
I’ve traveled nearly two thousand miles for you. So do you love me enough to drive a few hours for me?

Aimee blows her nose again. “Oh, hon,” she says, “I don’t think that’s going to work. I wasn’t planning on having you until Monday. I’ve paid for this place, and I’m just not in the best shape right now.”

“What am I supposed to do? It’s the middle of the night, and I’m on the side of some deserted road and —” My voice catches. I swallow hard and then say, “No, forget it. I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sure you will.” Aimee clears her throat. “I know this is hard . . . but please try to understand. I just need a little time. On Monday we can meet up in San Antonio, and I’ll take you to this nice lunch place. I can call in the morning and make a reservation. Does that sound okay?”

I say okay, but as soon as we hang up, I start crying. I’m crying so hard, my chest is heaving. I cry and cry, and, eventually, I stop crying, cut the engine, and fall asleep.

When I wake up, the sky is pink. There’s a field of parched brown grass off to one side. A seat-belt buckle is ramming into my hip and my head is pounding and it’s so hot my thighs are sticking together.

At first I don’t know where I am. But then I taste last night’s sandwich in my mouth and I smell chlorine in my hair and my throat tightens and my eyes fill with tears. Before I can stop myself, I grab my phone and do something I never thought I’d do.

“Hello?”

As soon as I hear my grandma’s voice, I start crying all over again.

“V? Honey? Are you okay?”

I catch my breath long enough to gasp, “I’m . . . I . . . can you and Grandpa talk?”

“Of course we can,” my grandma says. “Hold on a second.”

As soon as my grandpa picks up, I explain, between sobs, how I was driving through the night to see Aimee, but she’s in some place called Padre Island and doesn’t want to come back until Monday and I’m on the side of the highway and I honestly don’t know where to go from here. I assume they’re going to lay into me for driving at night or say something like,
We knew Aimee would do this,
but as soon as I’m done talking, my grandpa says, “Would you like us to fly out there? We can be on a plane in the next few hours. We’ll stay with you until Aimee returns.”

“Or would you like us to call Aimee?” my grandma asks. “We could persuade her to come back today.”

“I don’t think so,” I say quietly. “I don’t want anyone to have to
persuade
her to see me.”

“How about this?” my grandma says. “We’ll call a hotel in San Antonio and book you a room. You can relax, get some sleep, and by Monday Aimee will be back.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, I can do that my-my-my —” I collapse into sobs again.

“We know you can do it yourself,” my grandma says. “But we
want
to do this for you. We want to help.”

“Call us back in ten minutes,” my grandpa says.

After we hang up, I wipe away the tears and fiddle with my seat belt and stare out at the dry grass. When I call them back, my grandpa gives me directions to the Crowne Plaza San Antonio. I scribble it onto a gas-station receipt and then pull back on the highway toward San Antonio.

His name is Tommy, and I can already tell we’re going to hook up.

“I make the best guacamole in San Antonio,” he says as he stands next to my table, ready to take my order.

“How would I know for sure?” I fan myself with the menu. “I haven’t tried all the guacamole in San Antonio.”

“No need to. You’re here. Your search has ended.”

“That’s a little confident, Tommy.”

“Just being honest,” he says. “Hey, how do you know my name?”

I take a sip of water. “I have my ways.”

Tommy is a waiter at this restaurant on a second-story porch overhanging the River Walk. I spotted him as I was walking on the other side of the river, so I climbed the stone stairs, crossed the arching bridge, and asked the hostess to seat me in his section.

“All the girls want to be in Tommy’s section,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“So that’s really your name?” I crunch on an ice cube. “I didn’t realize anyone is actually called Tommy anymore.”

“My dad is Thomas. My cousin is Tom. My uncle is TJ.” Tommy raises his hand to his forehead in a two-fingered salute. “Born and bred in backwoods Kentucky.”

“What are you doing in San Antonio?” I ask.

“Long story,” he says. “Preferably told after some shots of tequila.”

“Sounds good.”

I order chips and guacamole. Tommy delivers drinks to a neighboring table and then pushes the guacamole cart over to me. It’s loaded with avocados and pottery containers of cilantro, chopped onions, and minced jalapeños. I watch as he expertly mashes an avocado, squeezes a few wedges of lime over the bowl, and then stirs in the remaining ingredients.

“You’re really serious about this,” I say.

“When it comes to guacamole”— Tommy sets a basket of tortilla chips on my table —“I don’t fool around.”

“When do you fool around?”

Tommy grins as he hands over the guacamole.

“Save it for the tequila?” I ask.

“Exactly.”

Tommy is right about his guacamole. It’s definitely on the spicy side, though, so I keep summoning him over to refill my water glass. Okay, it’s not just about the water. But I don’t think he minds because every time he returns, we joke around until the neighboring tables start looking neglected.

Finally, a guy with a massive platter of ribs snaps his barbecue-sauced fingers in the air. “Waiter —” he shouts. “Are you getting paid to serve food or pick up the ladies?”

Tommy pushes the guacamole cart over to that guy’s table and offers him a free sample. But later, as he’s handing me my bill, we make a plan to meet when his shift is done at ten.

After I leave the restaurant, I wander around the River Walk. It’s cooler down here than up on the street. It’s also surprisingly tranquil, with the shimmery water and mossy stonework and lazily drifting boats.

My grandparents actually picked a great hotel. The Crowne Plaza is situated right next to the River Walk. The instant I arrived at the room, I collapsed on the bed and slept for the rest of the day. When I finally woke up, I shampooed the chlorine out of my hair, hooked on my strapless push-up bra, and wriggled into that dress I bought for graduation. Then I went out to my car, where I retrieved my strappy sandals. I hadn’t touched them since I hurled them into the back after that party where I kissed Amos.

Even as I was blow-drying my hair and smudging eye shadow on my lids, I wasn’t admitting why I was going all out. But then I spotted Tommy pushing his guacamole cart, and it was hard to be in denial much longer.

When I meet Tommy at ten, he’s changed into a clean shirt and a pair of jeans. And I didn’t notice this before, but he has a silver stud through his tongue.

“Your real name is V?” he asks as we cross the bridge.

“It’s actually Vivienne,” I say, “but everyone calls me V.”

We pause at the bottom of the stairs.

“Where do you want to go?” Tommy asks.

“You know this place better than I do. What do people want to see when they come to San Antonio?”

“Mostly the Alamo . . . but I think it’s closed now.”

We take a left and wander past the boutiques and restaurants. Tommy points out the fudge shop where his friend works and the bar where his buddy slips him underage shots.

“Actually,” Tommy says, pausing. “About that tequila.”

“I’m right behind you.”

The bouncer informs us that Tommy’s friend isn’t here tonight, so we head to a nearby fountain and sit on the ledge, watching the lights illuminate the water.

“Do you still want to tell me why you left Kentucky?” I ask.

“Because of a girl,” Tommy says. “And a dog.”

“And a truck? Should I be playing a country song?”

Tommy runs his fingers through the water and explains how he and his high-school girlfriend adopted a puppy last summer. When she decided to move to San Antonio, he knew their relationship wasn’t going anywhere, but he loved the dog, so he came along. They broke up a month later, and she and the dog moved to Nebraska. Tommy thought about returning home, but he was discovering his talent with guacamole, and avocados are much harder to come by in Kentucky.

“It’ll be a year in September,” Tommy says.

“So you’re here for the avocados?”

“As good a reason as any.” Tommy dries his hand on his jeans. “What about you? Why are you in San Antonio?”

“You really want to know? It’s a long, pathetic story.”

Tommy shrugs. “I don’t have any other plans tonight.”

I tell him about my mom and how I drove all the way from New York to visit her, but she’d rather wallow on some island. I tell him how she bailed on my graduation last month and my school plays and my seventeenth birthday, which is why I’m an idiot to have traveled two thousand miles with this expectation that things would be different.