The Lies That Bind(12)

“What are you thinking?” I hear him ask me.

I look over at him, laugh, and say, “Honestly? I was thinking that you could be a serial killer. Taking me to some storage unit or shed…with your other victims.”

“Jesus,” he says, looking appalled even as he laughs. “Were you really thinking that?”

    “Well…yeah. Kind of,” I say, enjoying his reaction. “But I think you would have offed me by now.”

“I’m serious—stop that!” he says, shaking his head, but still laughing.

“I’m kidding,” I say. “But I really was thinking that this is a little crazy.”

“What’s crazy?” he asks, although he has to know the answer.

“This trip…This is only the third time we’ve laid eyes on each other—and here we are going away for the weekend.”

“Well, it’s more like the fourth,” he says. “Because you have to count Saturday night as the first and Sunday morning as the second….But yeah…it’s kind of wild.”

And we haven’t even kissed, I think, wondering when that will finally happen. After all, a boy doesn’t typically ask a girl to go away with him unless he plans on either killing or kissing her.



* * *



—

It takes us nearly an hour to reach the George Washington Bridge—and the traffic is even slower as we cross it. But I don’t mind, and he doesn’t seem to, either, as we talk and laugh and listen to music. Our conversation is relaxed, winding, downright Seinfeldian, as we go in-depth on some pretty random topics, such as why candy tastes better from a gas station on a road trip than it does at any other time, and what states have the best license plates and mottoes, and how much we both hate convertibles because of the wind and noise (and that we actually think everyone hates them, even the people who drive around in them, pretending to like them). Once again, I’m struck by the fact that everything feels so easy with him, like I’ve known him my whole life.

At one point, I tell him this, and he becomes animated. “I know,” he says. “It’s like you’re that girl on the school bus I always wanted to sit beside because she was so fun to talk to.”

    “Wait. What? School bus?” I laugh, pretending to be confused, even though I love the description. “Was there such a girl?”

He shrugs and says he doesn’t remember much about his childhood—but that if there were such a girl, she would have been exactly like me.

I smile at him, and then to myself, as I look out the window. I see signs for Kingston, then Albany, as we keep going north, the traffic eventually thinning, our speed increasing, along with the volume of our music. Every mile away from the city, I feel more free, downright exhilarated—the way only a summer road trip with a guy you really like can make you feel.

About two hours into our trip, despite all my adrenaline—or maybe because of it—I feel myself nodding off. I shake myself awake, sitting up straighter, opening the window for a blast of air. “Sorry,” I say.

“Sorry for what?” Grant says.

“For sleeping while you drive.” I smile. “That’s bad road trip etiquette.”

He laughs and says, “It is?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s a rule.”

“Well, I waive that rule,” Grant says, patting my leg. “Now go ahead…close your eyes.”



* * *



—

When I awaken, it is dusk, and we are bumping along a narrow dirt road cut through a forest of trees with uniform straight trunks. I take a few seconds to gaze out my window, basking in the adventure. When I finally turn to Grant, he says, “Oh, good. You’re awake….We’re here.”

“Where’s here?” I say, wondering how long I’ve been asleep.

“In the Adirondacks,” he says. “Near the Great Sacandaga Lake, if you’ve heard of that?”

    I shake my head, intrigued. “Is this a driveway?”

“Yeah,” he says, just as we round a bend and pull into a clearing. As Grant parks the car, I gaze out my window at the perfect little log cabin with a stacked stone chimney and a simple front porch housing two Adirondack chairs, appropriately, and several stacks of firewood. The roof is moss-covered cedar shake, the window trim and front door painted forest green to match, reminiscent of my Lincoln Logs growing up.

When I look back at Grant, he’s staring at me, looking so happy. “Do you like it?” he says.

“Oh my goodness,” I say, my mouth falling open for a few seconds. “I love it. Is it yours?”

He nods and says, “I share it with my brother….When you told me you were from Wisconsin, I thought it was a good sign…you know, that you might be a fan of log cabins.”

“Oh, I am. I really, really love it….It’s like a cross between Thoreau’s cabin and the Three Bears’ house,” I gush. “It’s absolutely enchanting.”

He laughs and opens his car door. “I wouldn’t go that far….But come on. Let me show you around before it gets completely dark.”

I step out of the car, noticing more details—a weathered split-rail fence at the tree line, a gravel and stone firepit that looks recently used, a clay pot filled with red wildflowers at the base of the railing leading up to the porch.