She looked past me and said hi to Lewis, and then declared she’d changed our plans. Instead of driving to Baltimore and Johns Hopkins, which was on my original itinerary, she’d decided we would instead visit Pittsburgh. She wouldn’t say why, only commenting cryptically she had something she wanted to show me.
I’d nodded like this was completely normal and expected and didn’t ask any questions. I probably kept smiling my same stupid smile. Honestly, she could drive us to the world’s biggest ball of twine or the horology museum. As long as I was with her, I’d be thrilled. This trip has been nothing if not a testament to how wholly and completely places can change because of the people in them.
When she left, Lewis asked me if he needed to come up with an excuse to put me in Juniper’s car for the drive. I shook my head, thinking of her hand in mine and a snowy walk lit by starlight. I think Juniper and I both know we’re driving together.
* * *
We’ve been on the road now for nearly four hours, though it’s felt like less. I’m hardly paying attention to the outside world—trees, off-ramps, more trees, I’m guessing. I don’t even register the difference between the brilliant day and the illuminated darkness of the numerous tunnels we drive through under mountains in the Pennsylvania wilderness. We’ve talked about everything, the conversation flowing easily from our families to our friends back home, extracurriculars and irritating classmates. While the highway passes in the windows, it feels like the rest of the world is on pause.
Finally, we pull over for gas. I noticed the meter on Juniper’s dashboard drop into the red an hour ago. Despite my repeated efforts to convince her to fill the tank, only now have I prevailed. She’s one of those people who claims she “knows her car.” I suspect she really just doesn’t want to stop when she’s on her way somewhere.
We park, and I reach into the back seat for my parka. It’s fallen onto the floor and is covered in detritus I don’t recognize. Scraps of paper, bent photographs, and what looks like an unfinished knit scarf have tumbled from a large shoebox tipped over from the back seat.
“What is this stuff?” I ask Juniper. I hold up the half-finished scarf.
Juniper glances back, and her eyes darken with protectiveness and possibly melancholy when she sees what’s in my hands. “It’s nothing,” she says. She reaches in the open car door and starts returning the items to the shoebox with a care I don’t expect. I hand her the scarf, which she doesn’t exactly look happy to see, but she places the fabric into the shoebox like it’s precious. “They’re just, I don’t know, important keepsakes,” she explains. “Private stuff I didn’t want to leave home with my sisters.”
She stows the box under the driver’s seat and shuts the door. We walk toward the convenience store. “So sentimental,” I say, teasing. “Juniper Ramírez holding on to pieces of the past?”
Juniper rolls her eyes. “Caring about the past and wanting to live in it forever are completely different.” She shoves me playfully.
“Ow,” I say.
“Ow?” she repeats incredulously. “I hardly even touched you.”
“I’m, uh . . .” I start, regretting the direction of this conversation. “I’m sore.”
“We’ve been sitting in a car for four hours. How could your arms possibly be sore? Have you been sneaking to the gym in the middle of the night?”
I feel myself flush. It’s not the nice kind of flush, either, the kind you get from compliments or a girl’s head resting on your shoulder. “No, I’ve just been doing push-ups in the morning,” I say, letting my voice get quieter with each word and hoping the subject vanishes into nothing.
It doesn’t work. Juniper narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“I don’t need a reason.” I walk quicker, entering the store ahead of Juniper, desperately fleeing this conversation.
She cuts in front of me and spins to face me. Walking backward, she says, “I think you have nice arms.” She winks and darts into the snack aisle. “I’ll get chips. You get candy. Nothing without chocolate,” she calls over her shoulder.
Not even trying to wipe the grin from my face, I pick up a handful of candy bars and head to the front. While Juniper fills up the tank, I notice the postcards on the rack next to the register. They read Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater, with pictures of a house like none I’ve ever seen, stone columns and concrete ledges stacked in the midst of trees and small streams. Under the name, the postcard heralds the house as the greatest example of American architecture.
I pull one out and show the clerk, who’s reading a magazine. “Hey,” I say. “Is this nearby?”
“Thirty minutes,” the clerk says without looking up. “Take exit ninety-one.”
I buy the postcard and candy and walk to the car, where Juniper is returning the nozzle to the pump. When we’re both settled in the car, I drop the postcard in her lap. “Think we have time for a detour?”
Juniper
FITZ IS TRYING to talk his way into a Fallingwater tour. Apparently, it’s a reservation system, and the next tour group is fully booked. Fitz refused to be deterred. He’s watching the woman behind the ticket counter while she types his name into the computer.
“I’m afraid I’m not finding you,” she says with a put-on frown. “Do you have the credit card you used to purchase the tickets?”
Fitz hands over his card, which I know is actually his brother’s card. After we decided to take this detour, we called Lewis, who was only minutes behind us. He met us at the gas station, and we explained to him our new plan. With a knowing glint in his eyes, he gave Fitz the card and told us he would just head straight for Pittsburgh, giving us the afternoon to ourselves.
Fitz steals a glance at me, and I hold in a laugh. It’s kind of impressive, though. Put a minor logistical hurdle between this boy and his early-twentieth century Prairie School house of choice and he becomes James Bond.
“I’m not finding any purchases on this card,” the woman says. “Are you sure this is the one you used?”
“Definitely.” Fitz nods. “It was months ago. Right, Juniper?”
I plaster on a profoundly concerned expression. “Yeah. For my birthday in October.”
While the woman continues typing, Fitz turns to me. October? he mouths.
I hold up eight fingers. The eighth, I mouth back.
He grins, and our eyes lock, and we’re held in this moment of heartbeats, improbabilities, and undeniable chemistry.
“I don’t know what happened,” the woman says, her voice interrupting our connection. Fitz’s eyes flit to her. “I don’t have your name or your card. I’m so sorry. We have openings tonight if you’d like to purchase tickets for this evening?”