Chapter Six
“Good morning, sunshine!”
I’m leaning against Tey’s truck, holding two cups of coffee, feeling chipper.
The morning sun is beating down on the top of my head, causing my curls to expand.
All around me, bells ring and keys jingle as businesses begin to open for the day.
I love Mystic mornings. You can hear the water stir, the seagulls chatter away to each other.
I’ve always been at my most calm right when I first wake up, before the rest of the world comes rushing in to invade my head.
Nico, on the other hand, looks like roadkill.
His clothes are wrinkled, and a golden shadow lines his chin, like he was in such a rush to get ready that he forgot to shave.
His shirt is inside out with the tag showing, the fly of his jeans unzipped.
He’s got an old Jansport backpack in one hand and a pair of aviator sunglasses in the other.
When I speak, he shuts his eyes tightly, as if my voice grates on his eardrums.
“Still not a morning person, huh?” I ask, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Morning people are government plants,” he growls. He studies the coffee intently. “Did you poison this?”
I roll my eyes. “That depends on your sugar tolerance. I dumped, like, a year’s supply of Domino packets into these.”
He looks up at me, taking a long sip just as our gazes lock.
“I like sweet things,” he says.
I swallow. “Good to know. Out of character, but duly noted.”
“When are you going to get it through your head, kid?” He grabs the keys out of my hand and unlocks the doors. “I’m not a character. That means I’m going to go off script.”
I purse my lips. “If you think I’m going to let someone who barely managed to get dressed this morning drive a vehicle”—I throw my duffel in the back of the truck—“you are seriously deranged.”
The vein in Nico’s forehead pops. “Joonie. Give me a break. We both know you can barely drive.”
My hand flies to my mouth in mock horror. “How dare you! Must I remind you that of the two of us, only one actually owns a car?”
“Fine.” He opens the passenger door for me. “Never mind that forty-six thousand people die in car crashes every year. Have you ever even handled something this big?”
“That’s what she said.” It slips out, almost like a reflex. I feel my face instantly turn tomato red.
He smiles smugly. “That’s what I thought.”
“Fine. Shotgun,” I grumble. “And I’m controlling the music.”
Minutes later, we hit the road. Mystic Village shrinks from a bustling ecosystem to a tiny dot in our rearview mirror.
A familiar wave of anxiety washes over me, the same panic I usually experience whenever I leave home and embark on a new adventure in the great unknown.
But I shake off the uncertainty, choosing instead to focus on the changing leaves outside my window, the autumnal foliage our quaint New England enclave is known for.
I close my eyes and belt out the lyrics to the road trip playlist I put together, full of bangers by my favorite pop girlies: Sabrina Carpenter, Chappell Roan, Charli xcx.
Female vocalists who stay in their feelings for a living.
I hit a particularly loud high note incredibly off-key, and Nico bursts out laughing.
“How do you sound exactly the same as you did at thirteen?” he asks, bewildered. “You’ve somehow managed not to age at all.”
I shrug. It’s not my fault that I have a youthful exuberance.
In fact, I thrive on my silliness, my ability to find joy in things that are mundane.
After Kyle, I honestly consider that a win.
There was a time where I’d go days, if not weeks, without laughing.
Now I make it my personal mission to put myself first, to take myself out of situations that don’t serve me and put a smile on my own face.
Pulling out my phone, I fire off a quick message to my Salty Girls to update them on my mission.
When I told my group chat what I was planning, they were understandably skeptical but supportive.
That’s the nice thing about having best friends who could basically be bots: they’re in it for the voyeurism, for the adventure.
They’ll never, say, platonically love-bomb you for months, then ghost you over a misunderstanding.
If you crash and burn, it’s no skin off their backs.
Right?
StepOnMeRyke432: The mer has swum out of her cave. I repeat: THE MER HAS SWUM OUT OF HER CAVE.
SoManyQueefs: Shit…new york doesn’t know what’s coming.
MERderMe71: Pls be careful!!! And update us every step of the way. We DEMAND pics
MERderMe71: Of his face. Not his…you know
SoManyQueefs: Dick?
MERderMe71: ok fml
LilMinnow69: You know I live in nyc right Joon??? If u have time, hmu :)
I close the chat so fast I get whiplash.
Don’t get me wrong: I love Angel with a fiery passion.
But meeting them in person would make our relationship a little too…
real. Through a screen, it’s impossible to disappoint someone.
Or allow them to disappoint me. Relationships feel more intentional.
I can take time to think about what I say and how I say it.
There’s a certain level of imagination at play.
I can world build the person I want to be. And the people I want them to be.
What if they meet the real me and I fall short?
What if I meet them and they let me down?
Everyone lets me down eventually.
Sam. Kyle.
The heathen currently behind the wheel.
Then I’d lose my only real friends for good. I can never let that happen.
Nico grabs my phone out of my hand and changes the music to some sad boy emo rock. I grunt my disapproval, and he gives me a triumphant grin.
“So, what’s the real reason you’re heading to New York?”
I snap out of my spiral, his question catching me off guard.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I force myself to fake a smile.
Nico gives me the side-eye. “Yes, you do. I Googled the name of your creative writing program. Turns out it doesn’t exist.”
“It’s very underground. A Sprouse twin started it. The pretentious one.”
“Sure. And I secretly moonlight as a pop star.”
I feign shock. “You too?!”
“Come on, Joon. Fess up.”
“You first,” I try to deflect. “Who’s the girl? I thought you didn’t date. Anymore.”
There’s an awkward silence that lasts about twenty seconds.
“Her name’s Hannah. And we don’t date. We fuck.”
In the window, I see my ears turn crimson.
“She’s a friend of a friend. We meet up a couple of times a year in the city. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
I snort. “Does she know that?”
Nico frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that she has feelings for you and is hoping you’ll change your mind.
It’s a classic trope: friends with benefits to lovers.
One party—in this case, Hannah—falls first. And when you realize you’ve lost her, probably because she’s met someone who wants to date her, you’ll grovel.
And then you’ll live happily ever after. ”
Nico throws his head back and laughs. “A classic trope? You really do live in some kind of magical pretend land, don’t you?”
I grit my teeth, blinking back the anger pulsing in my forehead.
Nico always does this: instantly makes me feel infantile, like a delusional toddler.
He’s done it since we were kids acting out skits in the backyard.
He did it that night when he broke my heart.
Yes, I know that everyone confused my optimism with naivety when I was little.
As a kid, playing pretend was a way for me to cope with the real world, with the way people saw me.
Treated me. As an adult, I’ve realized that reading can provide the same escapism.
Most days, my imagination makes me feel more creative and confident.
There’s just this one single person who has the ability to snap his fingers and darken the sky of my mental utopia.
I smack his shoulder. “You know, I’m getting really sick of hearing you shit-talk romance. It’s seriously overplayed and small-minded. Let me guess: You only read dystopian novels about the end of the world. Flesh-eating diseases, the Earth running out of natural resources, etcetera?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault that society is on the brink of collapse. Excuse me for wanting a good seat on the first shuttle to Mars.” The muscles in his jaw tense. “I read apocalypse porn. You read porn-porn. We’re two sides of the same coin.”
I shake my head. “You still don’t get it, Nico.
Romance…it’s about more than happily ever afters.
More than smut or spice. It’s about people.
Relationships, connections. Communication.
You know you can be asexual or aromantic and still enjoy romance, right?
Reading the genre isn’t a means to an end.
In my opinion, it’s about righting a wrong, a power imbalance.
You see, it all comes down to the patriarchy. ”
Nico rubs his budding beard. “I don’t follow.”
“Well, from a young age, girls learn about our bodies through a patriarchal framework. Boys learn about what to expect during puberty. Kids and teens only learn about penetrative sex, which robs women of agency. Women get pregnant; men don’t impregnate women.
Women lose their virginity; they don’t exercise their sexual autonomy.
And the act culminates whenever the man finishes, but women are never taught about how to chase their own pleasure.
Combine that with the fact that there’s little conversation about hormonal changes, sexual urges, and consent, and women are left scared, confused, and ashamed of their feelings.
They’re afraid to talk about sex with each other for fear of being labeled or oversexualized.
So they have to search for answers somewhere, the ones they don’t get in health class.
“And one of the ways that women learn about what they want—from a partner, out of a sexual encounter, in a relationship—is through reading romance. It’s women giving other women a literal helping hand.
As they gain more knowledge about their bodies and themselves, they grow more confident and begin taking back that power from the patriarchy.
That’s why men like you enjoy making fun of women for reading those books, why you trivialize their impact and liken them to trash.
It’s why men guilt women into hiding their desire to read the genre, calling it a ‘guilty’ pleasure.
Because you know that once women start swapping book recommendations and discussing their standards for love and sex, the jig will be up. And you’ll lose your power for good.”
Nico stares at me, mouth agape like a fish.
I reach over and close it.
“I had no idea your connection to those books was so…deep,” he finally says. “Honestly, I was just busting your chops. Shit.”
I blink a couple of times, caught off guard by his earnestness.
“Listen, I’m sorry, Joonie. Honestly. I don’t want to be one of those guys who mocks women for liking what they like. I’ll stop.”
I squint, waiting for the catch.
Asshole Nico, the one who calls me names? I know what to do with that Nico.
This genuine, pensive Nico? Not so much.
“Thanks,” I say, apprehensive. “Maybe I can lend you a book sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
We sit in the truck, stewing in silence.
My words hang heavily in the air. I snatch back my phone, my hand accidentally brushing against his leg.
He jolts as if I’ve shocked him with a live wire.
I lean against the truck door, putting as much space between us in the nineteen-foot-long monstrosity as possible, then crank up the air-conditioning. It’s suddenly insufferably hot in here.
I check my phone and look at Waze. Our driving time has shot up.
How is that even possible? There must be roadwork or something forcing cars into a single lane.
Great. Only six and a half more hours to go.
I wish I could just put on an audiobook, soothe myself with the sound of Ryke’s voice.
But letting Nico hear that feels…wrong, for some reason.
It’s like the two just weren’t meant to meet.
“You never answered my question,” Nico says, disrupting the quiet. “Why are you actually going to New York?”
I don’t know why I do it.
Maybe I’m feeling emboldened after the warm reception of my tirade.
Perhaps I experience a moment of temporary insanity.
For whatever reason, I say, “I just found out that Ryke, my book boyfriend and the love of my life, is kind of, sort of real. So I’m going to the city to find him. To meet him. And then maybe our love story can finally begin.”
Nico doesn’t give me any time at all to gauge his reaction to my confession. Instead, he steps on the brakes, jerking us forward.
And I have a single second to process what’s happening before the car behind us collides with the back of the truck and we go flying.