Chapter Ten Ren
Ren had never seen an airplane from anything closer than tens of thousands of feet overhead, but her parents had. They used to fly all over, apparently, until the greed and corruption of the world got to be too much, and they sold everything they owned and moved onto the land Steve inherited from his grandparents that became their homestead. But even though they wouldn’t step foot in an airport again, her parents would humor her when she was smaller and wanted to hear all about it. They’d tell her about the ticketing agents and the fancy uniforms they’d wear, about the security lines and how it used to stress them out something awful. Ren would ask over and over again to hear about how big the planes were up close, about walking down the jetway and getting to their seat and being given little bags of peanuts or crackers and a whole can of ginger ale just for themselves, and about getting to the airport hours early to get through it all.
Ren didn’t expect a road trip to be anything like a trip on a plane, but just in case more preparation was required than she expected, she was ready and at the curb in front of Davis Hall by five on Tuesday evening. By five fifteen, she was pretty sure road trips worked nothing like air travel. There were plenty of people walking around, plenty of cars pulling to the curb, but no Fitz.
It gave her time to sit with the thoughts she’d done her best to outrun for the past forty or so hours. What was she doing? Was she really thinking about leaving? For the past five days, she’d felt unfamiliar in her skin—frantic, anxious, suspicious. She’d been frustrated with her parents before, of course, but only in small ways. Things like when they wouldn’t let her try something new to help with the harvest, or they didn’t want to branch out and add a new farmers market to their monthly rotation. But nothing like this, when the confusion and hurt seemed to tangle into a ball of ache she wasn’t sure how to look at straight on.
But was she really doing this? This, as in getting in a car with a virtual stranger and driving for days? What choice did she have? She had to meet Christopher Koning. The curiosity had transitioned overnight into a burning, desperate necessity. Unfortunately, she only had sixty-three dollars to her name. Not nearly enough for a bus ticket, let alone a plane trip to Atlanta and back. But if Fitz could get her to Nashville, she figured she’d be able to afford a bus to Atlanta from there.
The bigger issue was her parents. This wasn’t sneaking off campus to grab a sandwich or buy a new alarm clock. This was leaving leaving. Today was Tuesday; Steve and Gloria would be there Friday evening to pick Ren up, expecting her home for the entirety of spring break next week. She had to delay them but hadn’t figured out how yet. What if they showed up early, before she’d thought of a good excuse for them to stay home? Would they go to her room and ask Miriam where Ren was? Would she tell them she hadn’t seen Ren in three days? And then what? What would she do if she actually managed to find Christopher Koning? Was finding him really worth the chance that her parents wouldn’t let her return to school?
Panic clawed its way up Ren’s throat at the possibilities that spiraled from there, and she blinked hard, trying to clear it. Behind her lids, she imagined a highway passing beneath her, the skyline of Atlanta coming into view, and the soothing relief of fireworks popping all around everything. The jittery adrenaline cleared from her blood when her mind went unfocused and she felt the safety of a big, warm hand holding hers, when she saw the sparkling lights glowing just in front of her.
The truth was, this trip was only partly about finding Christopher Koning. There had always been something inside Ren that knew there was more out there—more to learn, more to see, more people to meet, and more to her story. She knew, each time she imagined the fireworks, that the fantasy somehow took her off the homestead. Ren’s entwined dread and hope that this was a clue to all of that made her feel like she was a boulder balanced precariously at the lip of a cliff.
She reached down, absently winding her watch, before pulling her sleeve back to peek at the time. Five thirty.
The coffee shop across the street was open. Inside, it looked cozy, with soft lighting and a pastry case full of baked goods she could practically smell from her place on the curb. Digging into her pocket, she felt the small wad of cash there. It had to last her the next week at least. But if Fitz was driving her across the county, the least she could do was spare a dollar for a nice coffee for him, right?
When she stepped out of the small shop, the four-dollar coffee in hand, Fitz was bent over the hood of a rusty white Ford Mustang parked at the curb. “I might have to take her,” he mumbled as she stepped up behind him, “but I don’t have to be nice about it.” A loud ping sounded from somewhere inside the engine. Fitz slammed the hood closed, and the sound was echoed by a pop. “Bet she doesn’t make it to Missoula. We’ll see who breaks first.”
“Who’s breaking before Missoula?”
He turned, startled. “Hey. Oh. No one.” He scowled, and a tiny corner of her attention was pulled to the sight of his hair sticking up sweetly on the side, mussed from his fingers running through it, she guessed. She straightened. The appearance might be cute, but the man was grumpy: “I told you to be here at six.”
“It’s five forty-five.”
“Exactly my point,” he said. “I don’t need more time with you than I already have.”
She reminded herself that what he’d said was true: He didn’t have to be nice. He only had to get her closer to Atlanta. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.
“My car. Max.”
“You named your car?” she asked, delighted. “We named our tractor!”
Fitz had that look he’d worn around her a few times already, the one that said he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to find something funny. “Sure, I’ll bite. What’s your tractor named, Ren?”
Her chest tightened, and she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “Steve.”
“Steve, huh? Wow. Cool.” Fitz walked to the curb for his bag.
Ren swallowed, following him. “Yeah, Gloria—uh, my mom, she named it after my dad.” She could hear how the word dad came out thin, like her throat didn’t want to let it out. For the thousandth time, Ren felt heavily aware that the man she’d been raised to think was her biological father might not be, after all.
Grief felt like a hand wrapped around her windpipe, and she didn’t know what to do but shove the coffee toward Fitz. “Here. I got you this.”
“What is it?”
She pointed to the coffee shop back over her shoulder. “From there. It’s their special today. White chocolate something. It’s to thank you for taking me.”
“I’m not taking you because I chose to.”
“I know. But I feel bad about blackmailing you.”
“Well, by all means, a coffee makes things right.” He set his duffel down to take the coffee, but before he could take a sip, Ren grabbed his forearm and pointed to the cup. “No, no, look first! She made a leaf with the foam!”
Fitz pried off the lid, significantly less impressed than she’d been, saying flatly, “Wow, look at that.” He took a sip, his entire body jerking in a shudder. “Oh, my God that’s sweet.”
Ren laughed. “It was four whole dollars, so maybe she wanted to give you your money’s worth of sugar?”
With a playful smirk, Fitz opened his mouth to say something and then snapped it closed, reaching with his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Look, Sweden. Let’s—let’s just go over the ground rules.”
She was ready for this. “Rule one: You’re in charge. Rule two: No saluting or bowing.”
“Right,” he said, “and no—”
“Oh!” She remembered something she wanted to show him first and dug into her backpack. “I made sandwiches!”
Fitz’s lip curled, and she followed his gaze to the seven plastic-wrapped PB&Js she’d made this afternoon at the dining hall. “They’re a little smashed,” she admitted, “but I make them every Monday for the week, and trust me, they get better over time. If we ration it, this could get us to Nashville.”
Delicately, he plucked the bundle from her hand and dropped it in a trash can near the curb. “No.”
“Why’d you do that?” She walked to the can and peered in, but they’d already been swallowed by the random mess of banana peels, coffee cups, and other detritus. “What are we going to ea—”
“Rule three: No eating in the car.”
“Isn’t that what road trips are for? Snacking and driving and singing—”
“Rules four through six, I’m in charge of the music, no singing, and no being annoying.”
Her mood dropped. “These aren’t very fun rules.”
Fitz barked out a laugh. “You’re blackmailing me. I’m not going to make this trip enjoyable.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I told you I feel bad about that. It’s why I got you the coffee.”
“Rule seven,” he said, “no backseat driving.”
Ren bent to look in the back window. “I have to sit in the backseat?”
“Rule eight.” He ignored her and placed a gentle hand on the top of the car. “Treat Max with respect. Rule nine: No talking.”
“At all?”
“Remember rule six?”
Deflated, she nodded. “No being annoying.”
“What are you even going to Nashville for?” he asked. “If it’s so important that you’re willing to extort me, why not just take a bus or, better yet, fly?”
She lifted her chin, steeling herself against the wave of nausea that rolled through her. “It’s none of your business.”
“Well, fine, but here’s rule ten: I hope you have a way home, because I’m not sure what day I’m leaving to head back, and I’m not working around your schedule.”
Her brain hiccupped. She hadn’t even figured out how she was getting to Atlanta from Nashville, let alone that she might have to find her way back to Spokane afterward.
Perhaps sensing something in her reaction, Fitz bent to catch her eye. “You do have a plan for how you’re getting home, right?”
She nodded vaguely.
He leaned closer. “Sweden?”
“Yes,” she said with more conviction. It was too late to turn back now. “I do—or, at least, I will by the time I need to come back. But either way, it’s not your problem.”
Fitz turned, opening the trunk to put their bags inside. “We got ourselves a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl here, Max.” He paused before closing the trunk. “Do you need anything out of here before we go? We won’t stop until Missoula.”
With her mouth closed tight, she quickly shook her head.
“Good.” He closed the trunk with a nod of finality.
“ButIwantedtosay,” she whispered in a rush, shrinking under his glare. “I just wanted to tell you thank you. I know you’re doing this under duress, but it’s very important to me.” Digging into her coat pocket, she pulled an envelope free and thrust it toward him. “I also made you a card. Okay, now I’ll try to stick to rule six.”
He took the envelope, unceremoniously ripping it open. Inside was a hand-drawn card with the words THANK YOU “JUST FITZ” in bright block letters surrounded by a vibrant field of tiny, intricate fireworks. Yellow and orange, green and blue, red and purple. The precision, up close, was impressive, she knew. But when viewed from a little bit of a distance, it would look like stained glass. She’d made it last night—had spent nearly two hours on it, in fact—and she was proud of how it turned out.
For a beat, Fitz’s grumpy forehead smoothed as he stared down. “You made this?”
“Yeah.”
He exhaled a defeated breath and squeezed his eyes closed for a beat before shoving the card into his pocket and pointing to the passenger door. “Get in.”
Excitement rolled up inside her, bubbling free with a tiny clap-and-jump combo.
“Knock it off,” he said, rounding the car.
“I’m just so exci—”
“Shh.”