Chapter 14
FELIX
India said Crow Point was a popular spot for couples, but as soon as we arrive, it becomes clear that she could have been more specific.
This is a popular spot for couples, yes…to make out in their cars.
The parking lot is really just a long strip of gravel with railroad ties threaded down the row, and based on what I can see, parking etiquette seems to be similar to that of the urinals in the men’s restroom.
Don’t be weird and take the urinal right next to someone else. Likewise, don’t park right next to another car if you can avoid it. The rules are clear. So I pull into a spot with empty spaces on both sides, killing the engine. The music shuts off, plunging us into the silence of a Rocky Mountain evening.
“Well,” I say, trying not to feel awkward. “Shall we?”
But India doesn’t seem to feel any awkwardness at all. “Yep,” she says, unbuckling and then hopping out of the car with ease. I follow her lead and get out too, my feet crunching on the dirt and gravel as I make my way around the car.
“Wow,” she breathes, hands on her hips as she surveys the view.
Wow is right. Below us sprawls Lucky and Boulder and then more beyond that, as far as we can see. The setting sun makes the city lights glow, a glittering sea of white and orange, strands of red along the major roadways.
“All right,” I say with a nod. “I get it.” I inhale deeply, smelling that sweet pine needle scent—the dusty, warm, sun-soaked scent I associate with Colorado.
“I’ve never actually been up here,” India admits. “I’m glad your phone led us to the right place. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“It really is.” I turn on my heel and grab my camera from the back seat; it’s getting darker by the second, and while I took some basic photography courses in school, I’m not the most professional guy around. So I snap my pictures before the light is gone completely, waving India out of the way so I can get a clear shot of the valley. I take a few of the mountains behind us, too, the craggy-barked trees and ancient rocks.
And then, because she’s silhouetted perfectly against the sky as she balances on a railroad tie, because the light is just right and it would be a shame to miss, I snap a picture of India too.
Just one. I’ll delete it later, I’m sure.
When I’m done taking photos, I deposit my camera back in the car. Then I give the hood a thump. “What do you think?” I say to India, who’s still standing on a railroad tie. “Should we hop on?” I gesture to the SUV.
India nods and steps down from her railroad tie.
“Do you—” I say, about to offer her help, but she bounds over to the car, puts one foot on top of the wheel, and then hoists herself up with ease.
“Never mind, then,” I say under my breath. I do the same on the other side; the hood is a little dusty, but India doesn’t seem to care. She scoots back until she’s able to recline against the windshield, her head tilted back, her red ponytail pushed up and falling around her.
I settle myself next to her, making myself as comfortable as possible, and for several moments, neither of us speak. The glass and metal are warm underneath me, and although it’s no feather bed, I think I could sleep here if I were tired enough.
Next to me, India sighs happily. Then she swings her head over to look at me. “I feel like we should be having a deep, soul-to-soul conversation up here.” She jerks her chin at the admittedly incredible sight in front of us. “Don’t you?”
“Kind of,” I admit.
“Beauty like this…” She hums and shakes her head. “It invites connection. Doesn’t it? People go to beautiful places to connect. Even them”—she nods toward the other cars parked sporadically down the row, inside of which the occupants are surely not keeping their hands to themselves—“they’re all kissing each others’ faces off. Connection.”
And a brief image flashes into my mind—India and I, arms around each other in the back seat of my car, the two of us kissing each others’ faces off?—
I startle, my eyes popping wide open as I lurch upright so violently I almost topple off the hood.
“Whoa,” India says from next to me, and I can hear her expression even though I’m not looking at her. I bet she’s got one eyebrow cocked at me, an amused smile on her lips.
And, when I turn to her after settling myself back in place, I see that I’m right. The eyebrow, the curl of her lips, all of it.
“Lost my footing,” I say.
She stares at me. “We’re sitting.”
“It’s just an expression.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums skeptically.
“So,” I say, inhaling deeply and trying to calm my pulse. Why on earth did my brain go there? Why is my heart trying to speed up? “Let’s have a conversation, then. What do you want to talk about?” I lean back once more, reclining against the windshield next to her. I ignore the press of her arm against mine and focus instead on the dazzling sea of lights below.
“Hmm,” she says. “Tell me all your deepest, darkest secrets.”
“Perfect,” I say as relief crashes over me. “I can do secrets.” Secrets are much, much safer than whatever that mental blip was. “Um…oh.” I blink as I realize. “I don’t know if I actually have any secrets.”
“Oh, sure you do,” she says easily. “Everyone has secrets.”
She’s probably right. “Okay. Let me think,” I say. “Secrets, secrets, secrets…oh, I have one, maybe. It’s embarrassing. Are you ready?”
She turns her head toward mine, her expression serious. “I have never been more ready for anything in my life.”
I laugh. “Okay. Here it is: My very earliest crush that I can remember was Nala from Lion King. ”
India laughs too, a sudden burst of sound that dissipates into the evening, and I briefly imagine that sound mingling with the air above and then falling like rain—little droplets of sunshine, echoes of joyous mirth.
“Look,” she says, her smile wide, “I sort of don’t blame you. Nala had major bedroom eyes when she and Simba reunited.”
“Didn’t she?” I say enthusiastically, looking over at India. “When they were frolicking in that field?”
“Absolutely,” she says, still breathless with laughter. “She totally did.”
I nod. “Thank you. I feel validated.”
“But you know,” India says, “that’s not really a secret. It’s just a cute little-kid story.”
“You go, then,” I say, staring out at the view. “I just told you something very serious and very personal. The least you could do is—” I break off, laughing again as she jabs me with her elbow.
“All right,” she says. The warm breeze plays with a few strands of her hair that have fallen around her face, and she pushes them aside. “Let’s see…well. Okay.” She glances at me just briefly and then looks ahead of us again. “This isn’t really a secret. But it’s an admission. Does that count?”
“You made the rules,” I say, flipping my palm down to soak up some of the lingering heat from the hood of my SUV. It’s starting to get a little chilly now that the sun is well below the horizon.“If you want it to count, it counts.”
“Good point. I’m making the rules,” she says. “Okay. Here goes.” She takes a deep breath, exhales, and then speaks. “Sometimes—I don’t know.” A beat of silence, and then, “Sometimes I worry I’m the boring one in my family.”
My snort escapes me before I can stop it.
“Hey,” India says, frowning at me. “I’m being vulnerable here?—”
“Sorry,” I say quickly, grinning. “Sorry. I really am. It’s just—you’re so far from boring.”
She makes a skeptical little noise. “Cyrus is this brilliant genius?—”
“Cyrus is technically intelligent,” I correct her. “There’s a difference. His interpersonal skills are subpar.”
“He gets along with you.”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Because we lived together, and because I can more or less be friends with anyone.”
“Aurora is a gorgeous, fiery goddess who could probably stop time through sheer force of will alone,” she goes on. “Juliet is the sweetest person in the world, she’s beautiful, and she’s a dancer and an excellent cook and baker and all that. They’re all exceptional, and they’re defined. The business lady, the dancer, the intellectual. And I’m fine, I’m not ugly or dumb or anything, but I’m just very…” She shrugs. “Very average. And not really anything , you know?”
For a moment, I don’t speak. Somehow I can sense that she’s not looking for empty platitudes or compliments. In fact, I’m not sure she’s looking for a response at all. But…
“Your sisters are beautiful,” I admit. “Both of them. And they do both stand out in certain ways. But you do too. And I’ll tell you this, Sunshine”—I nudge her playfully with my elbow—“as great as they are, I would be very uncomfortable up here with either of them.”
“Yeah,” she grumbles. “Because Juliet would be looking at you with hearts in her eyes, while Aurora would refuse to come in the first place.” She throws me a glance that’s half-joking, half-serious. “I’m a nice in-between. The only one you could blackmail.”
“Nah,” I say, my lips curling again. “It’s because you’re my favorite, Sunshine. You make me laugh, you’re adorable?—”
“I’m not a child?—”
“I know ,” I say. “I know you’re not. You’re twenty-six. But you’re still adorable.” I grin at her. “And you won’t fall in love with me. You let me be myself, and you don’t try to change me. So you’re my favorite. Got it?”
I’m surprised at the little smile she gives me in return, because it’s tinged with something I can’t place. “Do you know what love is, Felicia?”
I blink, surprised at the sudden change in topic. “What?”
“Love is when you don’t try to change each other, but you both end up changing anyway, because that’s what you inspire in each other. They accept you for exactly who you are, but that acceptance makes you want to be better, and you change. You become better.” She sighs, her eyes still on me, serious despite the soft smile on her lips. “Changing for someone is not always a bad thing. And who do you want at your bedside when you die, anyway?” she goes on with a little snort. “Your bros ? Your homies ?” She shakes her head. “You want the people you love. You want your family.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded.
“I’m just worried you’re going to be lonely someday,” she says, the words smaller now, and faintly uncomfortable. She doesn’t look at me, even when I continue to stare at her. She just fiddles with a few pine needles. “All because you’re scared.”
“I—no. Don’t.” My voice is hoarse, but it’s important to me that she know this, so I go on. “Don’t speak like that, like you’re afraid of how I’ll react. Like you’re cowering. Don’t.”
It’s this, finally, that pulls her attention to me. Her gaze finds mine in the falling night. There’s a second of silence, and then she says, “What?”
I inhale deeply, running my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know if I’m—if I’m scared of love. I don’t know.” I pause and then go on. “But you’re allowed to tell me you think I am. I’m not going to yell at you or bite your head off or anything.” Clearing my throat, I add, “My dad is a good enough guy, but he’s a yeller, you know? He’s a shouter. And my mom is a peacekeeper. And it bugs me. Keeping peace is fine and good, and I guess their dynamic works for them, but don’t...” I shake my head. “Don’t cower. Not from anyone. Definitely not from me.”
“I—all right,” she says softly, and she nods. “I won’t.” She hesitates. “Was he like—” She breaks off and then goes on, a little awkwardly, “Was he at least nice, though?”
I know what she’s asking. “Oh, definitely,” I say quickly. “He was never abusive to me or my mom. He loves us. He’s just stern and—and serious, I guess. He takes everything very seriously.”
“Good,” she says, relief coloring her voice. “Good.”
I nod. “Definitely.” I pause as silence falls between us, thick and heavy. “Uh, before I forget. Can I get your official thoughts on the merits of this place as a romantic getaway?”
“Sure,” she says, and this time she doesn’t look surprised when I hold my phone up and ask if I can record. She just nods. “I guess—” Her eyes jump over to mine. “Can I start now?”
I give her a thumbs up, and she nods again.
“Yeah. So.” She waves an awkward hand around our setting. “This place is gorgeous, obviously. I think it’s great for people who just want to go do something fun together. You can have relative privacy too, if you want”—the image of India and I kissing springs into my mind again, and I banish it impatiently while she goes on—“and it’s quiet enough that you can just sit and talk. It would be a great place to watch the stars or watch the sunrise or camp in the bed of a truck. That kind of thing.” She shrugs and looks at me, and I nod.
“That’s great,” I say, stopping the recording and putting my phone away. She’s right; this would be a great place for any of those things. “Thanks for being willing to share.” I look at her. “So how’s your list going? What can I do to help?”
I half-regret asking the second the words leave my mouth. Part of me thinks now is a good time to wrap up the evening and go home. We’ve done what we came to do; we talked about the romance a place like this offers. I even told her something I wouldn’t normally tell people about my parents—not because I’m traumatized but because I just don’t usually dig very deep in my conversations. The fact that I went there with India makes me a little nervous.
Rather than continue to talk, I’d prefer to go home and go to bed. My mind is swimming, churning, and I don’t even know why.
Did she seem a little…I don’t know. Disappointed? Did she seem disappointed in me earlier, when she was talking about love and what I wanted for the future? Was I imagining that?
Of course you were, I tell myself. India Marigold does not care enough about you to be disappointed in anything you do. And even if she was, why would you care?
I shift uncomfortably, clearing my throat.
I wouldn’t care, obviously. It’s just…weird. I’m feeling a little weird. And it doesn’t help that the image of the two of us, kissing in the back seat of my car, keeps trying to pop up, no matter how many times I push it firmly away.
I need sleep.
But India, of course, doesn’t know any of this, and I can’t expect her to. She shrugs, a shift of her shoulders I feel against mine.
“My list is going fine, I think?” she says. “I love Janis Joplin, and this weekend I’m going to learn how to bake a carrot cake.”
“Oh,” I say, brightening, grateful for the distraction. “I’ll help!”
“Nah,” she says. She waves my offer away with one casual hand. “Juliet is going to teach me.”
“Oh,” I say as I deflate again. “That will be good. Juliet’s a great baker. Just tell her to do some chocolate cupcakes next time.”
Half of a grin tugs at India’s lips. “I will.” She pauses, and her eyes dart over to me. Then she turns her attention back to the pine needles she’s wrapping around her finger. “If you want, though?—”
“I do want,” I say immediately, my head turning to her. I straighten up. “I do.”
“You could come on my motorcycle ride with me,” she says. “Whenever I get around to it.”
“Yes.” I nod as a genuine smile finds me. “I want to come.”
“Yeah?” she says, finally meeting my eye.
I nod again, more vigorous this time. “Yes! Definitely. You said I could help you. I want to help.”
“I want to ride through the park,” she says. “I’ve never done it.” She pauses, and her voice turns skeptical. “You’d have to ride behind me, though?—”
“Done.”
“Which might feel emasculating?—”
“Psh,” I scoff. “It would take much more than that to make me feel like less of a man.”
She shrugs again, a little smile quirking at her lips. “Fine, then. Let’s do it. I’ll let you know when.” She pauses. “It might not be for a while. I’m not sure.”
“Perfect,” I say, and some of my disappointment dissipates. “Well, should we head out?” I crane my neck to look around the parking strip. “It’s getting late.”
“And chilly,” India says, sitting up. She scoots sideways a bit, then swings her legs over the side of the hood and hops down. I do the same, and the two of us get back in the car. I don’t let myself look at the back seat, because that stupid image of me and India keeps trying to play in my mind. We drive home in silence, but it’s not awkward; it’s just comfortable but tired. When I drop India off she gives me a little wave and then hurries inside, and I’m left to my own thoughts once again.
I can still feel where her arm was pressed against mine on the hood of the car.
Sleep. I need sleep.
I’ll feel better—less confused, less strange—in the morning.