The Road to You (16 page)

Betsy nudged me. “C’mon, let’s go.”

I nodded my head in Donovan’s direction. “Okay, but I have to talk with
him
for a minute before we get out of here.”

My friend shot me a sideways glance. “With Donovan McCafferty? Why?”

I tried to explain in a couple of short sentences about how he and I were trekking to visit a few colleges together. “I just need to double check the time we’re leaving tomorrow.”

Betsy smirked at the display of lovey-dovey affection going on right in front of us as half the population of Chameleon Lake marched passed us and out of the theater. “Well, I’d ask you if something was going on between the two of you, enough so that he’s driving you to a bunch of different campuses, but I think he’s got his hands full already.”

And in that second, I saw Donovan checking out the number of residents who’d walked down the aisle to the exit, marking the people who’d already seen him and the blonde together and had surely tagged them as a serious couple. He raised an eyebrow at me quickly and then turned his attention to his girlfriend of the night, saying something else that seemed overly intimate for the setting.

Which, of course, was exactly his intention.

But, even though I sensed he’d set this all up on my behalf—so there’d be no malicious gossip about us while we were gone, no more relationship questions from my friends or my parents—I was irritated by it. And even when the four of us had finally walked out and were standing face to face in the lobby, I still couldn’t shake it.

“I really wouldn’t have pegged you as a Travolta fan,” I told him with mock sweetness. “I’ll have to remember to bring my ‘Saturday Night Fever’ cassette along for the trip. We can listen to some disco on the drive.”

He pulled the blonde—whom he’d introduced to us as “Vicky from St. Cloud”—closer to him and laughed. But I could hear the steel in his voice when he said, “You
young
girls…always so into silly fads.”

I glared at him. I’d had more than enough of that
young girl
crap.

Before I could say anything in return, Donovan added, “So, about tomorrow, is eight a.m. too early for you? The sooner we hit the road, the sooner we can come back.” He sent Vicky a look of longing that made me want to puke.

“Eight in the morning is
just fine
,” I stated. “I’ll be ready even earlier than that, but, you know—” I feigned a shrug. “
I’m
not going to be up very late tonight.”

He waited to make a face at me until Betsy and Vicky were both looking elsewhere. A junior-high kid had spilled what remained of his buttered popcorn on the red carpet, and the knowing glance Donovan gave me during that temporary distraction left me with little doubt that he sensed my jealousy. And I
was
jealous. Maybe it was stupid, but I couldn’t help how I felt.

“Well, we should get going.” He squeezed Vicky’s shoulder, and she nuzzled up to him. “Bye, Betsy,” he said. “Aurora, g’night. See you tomorrow.”

We waved them off—a braided ribbon of anxiety, frustration and something else churning deep inside my gut. I did, at least, have the satisfaction of hearing Vicky say to Donovan as they walked away, “Do you really think disco is a
fad?
”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Donovan was the living antithesis of anything remotely “disco,” which meant I knew just how to make him suffer on the trip for taunting me so much tonight. I was in possession of
several
Bee Gees cassettes and, oh, I wasn’t kidding about bringing them along.

“Do you have time to get a milkshake at Rudy’s tonight, or do you still have some packing to do?” my friend asked me.

“There are just a couple other things I have to still add in,” I said.
Photos of our brothers. Tire-slashing tools. Bee Gees music.
“But I can do that right before bed. It’ll be fun to talk about the movie for an hour.”

Betsy grinned at me. “It was great, wasn’t it? I wish I could sing like Olivia Newton-John! And I would’ve loved to have lived in the Fifties with those cute poodle skirts and guys in leather jackets, going to drive-ins and sock hops…”

I listened to my friend rhapsodize about life two decades ago—although Betsy’s current world couldn’t have been more like her fantasy. It was still all about milkshakes, dances and frivolous movies. She didn’t need to be in the Fifties for that. (Maybe just for the poodle skirts.) But Betsy didn’t see it the way I did. Didn’t see the pure simplicity of her life.

Over chocolate malteds, I let her chatter while my mind drifted ahead to the morning, to being with Donovan and to pressing on in the search for our brothers. Three obstacles down, zero left to battle…at least here at home. Who knew how many challenges were ahead once we were on the road, though?

At one point, Betsy mentioned how we’d run into Donovan, and my attention was fully engaged again.

“He seemed to really like that blond girl,” my friend said unhelpfully. “It’s good that he’s trying to find happiness, you know. After everything.”

She paused then sent me a goofy look, like one of the many we’d shared early on in high school when teen life had been amusing and uncomplicated. “Hey, do you think he’s one of those guys who’ll stop at payphones to call her five times a day?” She laughed at the mental image. “Or pick up souvenirs for her at every campus?”

“No,” I said. That wasn’t going to happen even if he
was
that type.

“Ha! I didn’t think so. He seems so…moody. You know, serious and brooding sometimes, but then kind of funny and flirtatious.” Betsy fancied herself liking “moodiness” in a guy ever since she’d read about Mr. Rochester in
Jane Eyre
. “Are you, like, excited about taking this trip with him and seeing the colleges?” she asked. “Or more nervous?”

“A little nervous,” I admitted. “Mostly because the future is so…uncertain.”

I studied my friend after I said that, knowing Betsy would understand the words but not look or listen for nuances. She wouldn’t think beyond the obvious and, maybe, it wasn’t fair to expect that of her. But I also knew she wouldn’t probe further. Wouldn’t ask for clarification or question anything I said in a way that wasn’t light, breezy and as shallow as a cookie sheet.

It was a problem I had with people again and again in my life, even before Gideon had disappeared. There were too many situations others took at face value. A useful trait when I needed to withhold important information for safety’s sake. A disappointing one when I hoped to form a truly genuine connection.

“Well, I hope you guys have a good time,” Betsy said brightly, slurping the last of her shake. “He’s kinda cute, but at least you don’t have to worry about him coming on to you or anything. He’ll probably spend half the trip mooning over Vicky.”

“Probably,” I said, smiling, though it hurt to do so.

Yes, it irked me that Donovan played these flirtation games with other girls, but the pain I felt didn’t stem from that. I knew he’d been acting again. The ache went deeper. To my friendships in Chameleon Lake and the transitory nature of them. Yet another anchor, tying me to home, that had just been released.

T
HE NEXT
morning came quickly and, like clockwork, Donovan pulled into our driveway at eight a.m.

My parents walked out of the house with me, shook hands with him and said soft superficial things that were in love’s code:

Mom: “Drive safely.”
We can’t lose you, too.

Dad: “Don’t forget to take breaks.”
Please stay alert.

Mom: “Call us and let us know how things are going.”
We need to be sure everything’s okay.

Both Donovan and I promised all of these. Promised we’d be very careful, check in every night by phone, not take chances. I had a list of emergency phone numbers and some money I’d saved up from work. Dad slipped me fifty dollars more, and Mom handed us a thermos with hot coffee, a couple of sandwiches and a few blueberry muffins for the road.

By silent agreement, my dad and I didn’t let on to my mom that the trip was anything more than a routine college-scouting expedition. It was better that way, we both knew.

So, when Mom hugged me goodbye and said, “I hope you find the perfect campus…one where all your dreams will come true,” my heart broke a little at her trust and hopefulness on my behalf.

And, when I met my dad’s eye, I could barely contain within me the bursting love I felt for both of my parents and, though I hated to admit it, the surprising surge of anger I felt toward Gideon.

How could he be alive and not tell us? How could he keep hurting us
all
this way?

“I’ll take good care of her,” Donovan whispered to my dad.

“Just bring her home safe,” Dad murmured back, both of them—I was sure of it—thinking I hadn’t overheard them.

“I will,” Donovan replied. “I give you my word.” A pledge between two former military men that I suspected was stronger than law, or even life.

Chicago, Illinois ~ Saturday, June 17

“
C
HICAGO’S NOT
like Crescent Cove, you know,” Donovan said, stating the obvious for at least the third time since we’d left Chameleon Lake that morning. “It’s not some one-street backwater town where we can just drive through it and pick up clues about two random guys who were there a couple of years ago. We’re flying blind.”

“We’re not,” I countered, flipping to the middle of Gideon’s journal and reading the
Chicago
page yet again:

I noted there was a slight ink change here.