7. Rhodes
7
Rhodes
A fter scheduling a massage for Amber, I took the elevator back up to my apartment to shower and change, which is one benefit of having a full-size gym just downstairs. I might have to trade out thicker walls between my neighbors, but it’s worth it.
My place is quiet.
Too quiet.
Which is weird because…thin walls. I can normally hear everything, especially those I don’t want to.
The silence is starting to grate on me, so I turn on the small radio I keep in my room, an ancient device I haven’t really gotten out of the habit of switching on occasionally. Mom used to listen to the radio religiously anytime she was in the kitchen, so maybe it’s the nostalgia of it that keeps me tuned to a few different stations I toggle between.
Paige found the old device at Upstairs Closet and was so proud when giving it to me, a treasure discovered among the rubble. Not like it’s that hard to find a decrepit piece of technology in a thrift store, but that she knew how much this would mean to me.
She knows a lot of things like this.
And…there I go again.
Not obsessing over what could have been for the next few weeks is going to be hard. I’m realizing I have control over most things in my life except my feelings. They’re unruly and want what they want. Paige is now fully hardwired into my brain, my cells, my fucking heart.
“I can do this,” I breathe in. “Another day,” I breathe out.
The shower is out to get me when I turn it on, and it gets too hot, only for me to overcorrect and make it way too cold. Lukewarm doesn’t feel refreshing like it normally does after a hard workout, so I rinse off and quickly abandon the spray jets pelting my back. It’s all wrong tonight. Maybe I should watch a show or take up knitting. God, who am I, my mother?
Toweled off and changed, I check my phone only to notice a missed call from Paige.
My stomach plummets to the floor below me. I saw her this morning before she left, but we haven’t talked all day. Could something be wrong? Is she hurt?
Stop. It.
I’m overreacting. She’s probably just fine and called to tell me not to forget to water the plants she doesn't have.
There’s only one missed call instead of the fifty-eight she’d usually leave like she did when the reunion show of Love is Blind aired. I was on my way to her house and stopped at the grocery store to pick up the orange popsicles I know she likes, and even that was too long.
We ended up on FaceTime while I finished checking out before making my way to her house. She gave me a highly detailed account of everything everyone was saying, which was a lot. That’s pretty much the whole point of that episode: blabbing. And I love every minute.
“She’s probably just calling to check in,” I tell myself as I click the missed call and try to reach her.
It rings for an ungodly amount of time, and I’m about to hang up when she finally answers, laughing. “Rhodes! Hi!”
Okay, not hurt .
“How are you? I must have missed your call while I was…at the gym.”
I’ll explain the pickleball thing later.
“I’m great,” she says through another laugh.
What is so damn funny ?
The edge I’m teetering on is only getting sharper and harder to balance.
“We’re at a diner outside Spokane. There was a small, feathery issue, and Archie and Winnie stopped to help.”
Who the fuck are Winnie and Archie ?
Not even a minute into our conversation, and I already can’t help feeling like I’ve missed out on too much these last couple of hours while I was getting demolished in pickleball. But I don’t want to come across as overbearing or weird about her being with these strangers.
But I really don’t like it.
“So, uh, Archie and Winnie? Those are some names,” I say with a clipped laugh.
“They’re the best,” she touts. “We ordered pie for lunch, and I think they might be my new favorite people. They’ve been traveling in their RV full-time for years ! Like, plural! Can you believe that?”
“I’m shocked,” I say in the most monotone voice ever.
All I can think is Paige doing the same. Can Vincent VanGo even drive that far? I have my suspicions. Putting her on speaker, I pull up my local marketplace app with everything from used nail polish to used vehicles and run a quick search for other potential vans just in case Vincent dies a sudden and unexpected death. You can never be too prepared.
“I was, too,” she says. “But they’re retired, so there’s that.”
I clear my throat while scrolling. There’s a sense of relief knowing they’re at least older, but it still doesn’t ease my mind that they could somehow be trying to take advantage of her. “Are you still planning to stop in Spokane tonight?”
“Yeah, I’m going to drive to my campground after this. Archie and Winnie said they’d follow me there since it isn’t far from where they’re staying in order to help me get things set up. Isn’t that so nice of them?”
Absolutely not. Strangers bringing Paige to where she’s staying— alone —so they can help her? What kind of help are they going to give?
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I can’t help myself. “You don’t know these people very well, and they could be baiting you with their gray hairs.”
“Of course it’s a good idea. They want to help.” Her normal sing-song voice lowers. “And I trust them.”
I know she’s trying to convince me of this, like I should trust them, too. I’m not sure if my tone or question clued her into the fact that I don’t think she’s being safe, but she picked up on it all the same.
“I’m a big girl, Rhodes.”
Fuck . I’m screwing this up. But her safety is important to me. I love this woman and don’t want anything to happen to her, including being lured in by the grandparent-type. My overprotective senses are on full alert when it comes to Paige. Everything inside my cells tells me to swoop in and save her. Call the police ! my heart screams. But I’m still just the best friend. I need my heart and brain to work together to remember this.
“Tell them you have a sword in your van.” Okay . I’m obviously not ready to think rationally. “You still have that knife Machete Lady gave you, right?”
“You mean the pocket knife?”
“Yes, that,” I confirm with a snap of my fingers. “Tell them it’s a sword though so they know you’re armed.”
“Rhodes, really?”
“Yes, really!” I yell louder than I intended. “You can’t be too safe.”
She huffs. “You know what? I have to go.”
I know I’m fucking this up, and she’s slipping away. But I just can’t help it. Or at least explain to her that these feelings I’ve woken up inside me are strong and wild and so out of control, I don’t know how to tame them. Maybe a whip or electric collar? Who the hell knows? Instead, I just resign myself to the fact I can’t do anything. She isn’t asking for my help.
I exhale and try again. “Tell them I say hi, and text me later when you’re all settled if you want. No pressure. Or text Amber. Your Mom or Dad. Even Constance. Hell, add Machete Lady to the group text. Just someone.”
“Okay, I will,” she says, and it’s like I can see her biting the inside of her cheek and twisting her lips.
I’m sure she thinks I’m being ridiculous.
I can’t disagree.
She doesn’t say goodbye, and if I didn’t already know it was a Turner family habit, I would’ve felt worse about overstepping. Instead, I just feel mildly bad. I’ll apologize the next time we talk or maybe grovel in a text if I can’t sleep tonight.
I don’t like this new dynamic. I’m more worried than usual, more overbearing. Unfortunately, I can’t play pickleball. I just got back, and that might be overdoing it.
So, for now, in order to put a muzzle on my emotions, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and sit back on the couch. I should probably start editing my next video, but instead, I toggle to a new search bar and type in something I can control:
How to improve your pickleball game .
MY EYES ARE drooping closed, and my consciousness is between the worlds of awake and asleep.
My dad used to say he was just resting his eyes . That’s me.
Until my phone buzzes.
I fling my eyes wide and pull my arms out of the burrito I created with my blanket in my bed to check my phone.
Paige:
I’m alive.
I exhale deeply, relaxing back into my pillow. The racing thoughts keeping me from fully falling into a deep sleep ease up, and I sigh with relief.
Me:
Would it be too much to ask for proof of life?
She sends a selfie of her feet outstretched in front of a roaring campfire. An elderly couple sits across from her in camp chairs that likely belong to them since Paige only brought one she found at Upstairs Closet. It’s a fuzzy sphere-shaped bucket seat that could likely sit two. The thing took up too much space inside the van, so she strapped it to the back, refusing to leave it behind.
The thought makes me smile all over again as I study the brightness of the fire in her photo. An ache behind my ribs acts up again, which I don’t think will entirely go away until she’s back.
Paige:
Now, where’s your proof of life?
I smile to myself then hover the phone above me to snap a picture to send off to her. The flash turns on automatically, and I’m blinded by the intense light, squinting even more than I already was.
Paige:
I can barely see you!
We can’t have that.
I unravel myself even more and slip out of bed, like I wasn’t just being lulled to dreamland, and flip on the light. I ruffle my hair, which might make it worse since some of it falls over my forehead, per usual, while the rest is sticking up at odd angles, but I take a picture anyway and send it. We never filter our selfies to each other, and I’m not starting now.
Paige:
You were sleeping, weren’t you?
Me:
I was just resting my eyes.
Paige:
Mhm.
Paige:
I can always tell by your expression.
Me:
And what does it tell you?
The three dots appear and disappear. I’m too wired to lay back down, so I prop myself in the corner of my small sectional Paige helped me pick out on Black Friday a couple of years ago. She only consented to purchasing a new one if it was on sale. Half off with free delivery was enough for her.
Paige:
Your eyes are barely open, and you get this lazy grin. It’s very you.
I’m smiling now, wondering if it’s the kind she likes.
Me:
I’m surprised you’re not already in bed.
Paige:
It’s only 8.
Me:
It’s 9, and you’ve been driving all day.
Paige:
I think the whole bird incident aged me by ten years minimum.
Me:
Bird incident?
This must’ve been why she called earlier today.
Paige:
I killed a bird today.
Paige:
Don’t worry, I’m fine. The bird is not.
She took the question right out of my fingers as I was typing it out.
Paige:
I wrote about it in the journal you gave me while Winnie and Archie went to get pizza. You’ll read about it when I get back.
Me:
You’re going to let me read your journal?
Paige:
Maybe. I kind of just started writing like I was telling you the story. “Dear Rhodes” just felt right.
There isn’t a chance in hell there’s anything lazy about my grin now.
Me:
I like that.
Paige:
I wanted you to be a part of this trip as much as possible.
Of course, my time spent worrying about losing her to an elderly couple is obliterated by this comment. She sees me. Sees through all my worries that I’m being left behind, that we still have so much to talk about and process after our kiss, and understands my intense need to keep her safe.
But I’m starting to realize she can’t figure out what she really wants while I keep her safe. There’s a level of risk she’s going to have to take.
Every great journey has some, including mine.
I’m starting to think mine is the risk of letting go. No one explained how I’d admit to having feelings for my best friend only to have to wave and smile as she left me. But maybe she hasn’t left me completely like I thought.
Me:
I’m sorry for being so overprotective earlier.
Paige:
Is that what we’re calling it?
I scrub a hand down my face and reply.
Me:
I wasn’t expecting this to be this hard.
Paige:
I’m not mad, Rhodes. I know it’s because you care. Just try to remember that I care about you, too.
Her words aren’t a promise or a confession of love, but they are what I needed to hear.
Me:
Could you promise me one thing?
Paige:
I think I can manage that.
Me:
Can you keep the pocket knife with you at all times?
Paige:
Rhodes…
Me:
Okay, okay, sorry. Again.
Paige:
I promise.
My whole body relaxes.
Paige:
Now probably wouldn’t be the right time to tell you that I don’t actually know how to open it.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Me:
Call me tomorrow, and I’ll show you.
Something tells me I’m going to have a lot of opportunities to get this right.