He shakes his head no.
"You know, we were supposed to tell each other stories? You know, pretend to be these other people."
"Yeah. I've been doing that a lot, and it was fun and it has its place, but I didn't want to do that with you."
"Why not?" I ask, picking up a strand of hair that has hopelessly fallen and playing with it.
"I don't know. I just saw you out there and I wanted to talk to you. And when I did, I didn't want to lie, and that was that."
The GPS leads him straight to my house, and I point it out. "It's the one with the big bushes out front."
"Looks like a nice place to live," he says, and I turn to face him.
"I live with my mom."
"You do?"
"Yeah. She has cancer. She's getting treatment."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"Anyway, we'll be leaving on Monday to go to Minnesota. The Danick Clinic. She's getting an experimental surgery done."
"Oh, okay.”
“So in terms of that, I'd like to go out with you, but I'm going to be in Minnesota for a while helping her with the recovery and everything else."
"Yeah, I get it. Let's exchange numbers and maybe make some plans."
"I don't think you understand. I think it's going to be like weeks, and tomorrow I have to spend all day packing, getting ready. The flight is really early in the morning."
"Are you trying to back out? If you're trying to back out, just tell me,” he asks, suddenly insulted.
"No, not at all."
He turns the engine off and turns around in the seat to face me. "Please don't feel any pressure to go on a date with me. Okay?"
"I'm not making this up."
"I'm not saying that you are, but I just want to be honest."
"I want to see you. I'm just laying out my life for the next month and the fact that I won't be here. That's it."
"And if I happen to be in the Midwest during that time?” he asks coyly.
"I'd love to see you.” I nod.
Our eyes meet again and something in his changes. He looks down at my lips and then up at me asking permission.
I move a little bit closer and he does as well, and our lips touch again.
He reaches over and brushes his fingers along my neck, touching me slightly and sending shivers down my spine.
He kisses me over and over again, and I kiss him back. Our tongues find each other’s, but it takes some time for me to pull away.
"I have to go," I say, shaking my head in the direction of my house.
"It was great to see you tonight," Dante says.
"You, too. Oh, wait, phone number," I say, slamming the door behind me but pointing my finger up in the air and leaning back over.
He opens the window and we exchange numbers.
When I wave goodbye to him, he tugs on my arm, pulling me back inside and giving me another kiss.
"I'll be in touch," he promises.
My stomach is full of butterflies the whole time I walk up to the front door.
25
Jacqueline
Our arrival in Minnesota is pretty uneventful. After a lot of packing and sorting, trying to figure out just the right amount of stuff to bring, I finally settled on a large carry-on bag.
It's going to be a hospital, and I'm just going to be doing a lot of waiting and sitting around, and comfort at a difficult time is my number one priority. I pack a lot of leggings, loose fitting tops, sweaters, and comfortable shoes.
My mom on the other hand, seems to think that she's going to some sort of celebrity birthday bash, and packs herself heels, a big bag of makeup, all of her hair tools, and everything else that's completely unnecessary.
"Listen. A woman has to look good to feel good," she said. "After I get all of this packing done, I think we should celebrate."
I love her attitude, but I don't quite agree with it. It's not that I don't pay attention to my looks. It's just that ... Well, yeah, I don't really pay that much attention to my looks.
We fly coach, sit next to each other, and Mom manages to fall asleep while I listen to music and think about Dante.
What were the chances of him being at Redemption?
What are the chances of him actually telling me the truth?
On one hand, I hate this excited thirteen-year-old girl that I've suddenly become.
But on the other hand, this is the happiest that I've felt since Michael's death, and I can't help but want to revel in it.
I thought for sure that after he dropped me off, he'd play some game, the way that guys play where he will wait a requisite amount of time to call me to not look "desperate".
But he didn’t.
He texted me that night, and again the following day. We texted quite a lot on Sunday, and I promised to be in touch after we land and get situated in Minnesota.
We arrive in Minneapolis around ten in the morning, grab some breakfast at the airport Starbucks, and take the rental car to the apartment complex that's walking distance to the hospital.
The hospital is not located in the city, but rather near a cute little town with shops and a main street called Aspinwall. I like that. As I wheel my mom's heavy suitcase to our first floor apartment, I see two little girls playing on the playground in the park across the way.
The pre-teens laugh and joke without a care in the world, and I suddenly feel incredibly jealous. If this were a big city hospital, there would be a big trauma unit, a big ER to accommodate gunshot wound victims, and all of the medicine that big city hospitals usually deal with. But here in the middle of this bucolic little town I feel like my pain and my mom's suffering doesn't belong.
Everyone is happily going along with their day, living their lives, and we are these imposters, occupying an apartment on the corner, and filling it with grief.
My mom and I go to her first preliminary appointment which is just a meeting with the doctor at her office. It's a corner glass unit with a view of the rose garden below.
Dr. Ellis is a no-nonsense kind of personality who immediately puts me at ease. She doesn't sugarcoat things, but she isn't overly morose either.
She lays out the possibilities, and the options, and all of the details about the surgery, 99% of which goes over my head.
"So what are the chances of this being successful?” I ask.
"It's about fifty-fifty. We don't have a good number of cases and subjects who have gone through it. And as you know, medicine is an art as well as a science. People come with their own histories and different speeds at which their cells mutate. You're doing a good job of following the right diet, but it all has to do with how your body reacts and that we don’t know for sure."
"So what is the process for the surgery?” I ask, my hands trembling. I stick them deep into my pockets to keep them out of view.
"Well, after this you’ll go and get all your blood drawn, and tomorrow morning you need to be there at eight o'clock for prep. Surgery's probably going to start around 10:30, 11:00, and we'll go from there."
We both nod, both probably feeling tense and anxious, but relieved at the same time.
In situations like these it's important to have something to do.