11. Eleven
Time moves so slowly as we drive across Texas, I can feel my own body starting to decay.
We stay in constant motion as we check off the boxes on Travis’ list while we trudge across the huge state.
San Antonio.
Austin.
Dallas.
The greenery of the east fades sharply into the dry and dusty monochromatic landscapes of the west. Texas is a place to go to forget or be forgotten.
The days it takes for us to cross the state wear on me.
On us.
Hours of sitting behind a steering wheel with the idiotic wooden beads digging into my sticky skin have me on the brink of snapping like a dry twig.
Somewhere between the ridiculous yoga postures Marin insists on showing me at the rest areas to help me relax and the moment Johnny Cash’s voice flips from soothing to completely unnerving, I rip the beads off the seat and throw them out the window as we barrel down the highway.
“I don’t care if they’re made of wood. It’s still littering and bad for the environment,” Marin says, appalled.
I don’t have the heart to tell her in that moment, I don’t give a flying fuck about the environment.
With every too-long mile that registers on the odometer, I mentally list and re-list every single reason the trip is the worst idea of my life.
The morning we find ourselves sitting and staring at something labeled as art at the edge of a sun-bleached field in a town called Marfa, I am certain it’s the end.
We squint at the series of rusty shipping containers set in rows in the middle of a barren field. The three of us sit on a bench with a different expression on each of our faces: Marin’s admiration, mine skepticism, Finn’s annoyance.
“The artist who made these, a lady named Zefra Lox, said that these symbolize the obsessive need to over-consume with the balance of lonely isolation,” Marin says.
I frown.
What the hell does that even mean?
“She sounds like a moron,” Finn bites out, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a finger.
Last night, we had all been in good moods while we went to see some mystery lights that danced across the desert in the dark, but this morning, Finn is distant. Cold.
A woman walks by us with a flustered look on her face and tears in her eyes.
“Isn’t this just so incredible?”
I bite my lip. Because no, it is not incredible.
“Inside, we got to see a bunch of empty chairs in a room of red lamps, and out here we are looking at... what is this supposed to be?”
“It’s art, Penelope,” Marin says as she snaps a picture with her phone. “It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s about a feeling.”
“It feels dumb.”
Finn’s tone is clipped, and the way he scrolls on his phone is desperate. His jaw clenches repeatedly, and the tension rolling off him in waves is palpable.
I lower my voice and rub his tight shoulders with my palm. “Hey. You okay?”
He jerks away. “I need to make a call. I’ll meet you two in the parking lot when you are done with your stupid containers.”
As soon as the words are out, he’s off the bench and marching across the field.
Defeat tugs on my shoulders. “What’s going on with him?”
“Who knows?” She rolls her eyes. “I think it’s about Abby. I saw one of the texts saying she wasn’t going to wait around all summer or something. She’s kind of the worst anyway, so good riddance in my opinion, but whatever.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
I promised myself not to push Finn, but Marin is a resource I can’t refuse.
“Honestly, she’s a controlling bitch. She asked Finn to stop hanging out with some of his friends because she didn’t like their girlfriends. She hated it when he went fishing on the weekends with Uncle Gabe, and she told me it was cute I wore used clothes, but she said it in a way that implied she did not think it was cute. Especially when I told her I thought it was cute she dressed like a hooker.” She shrugs. “He can do better.”
She snaps another picture of the containers in front of us.
“Language,” I only half-mean it. She does actually sound like a bitch, and I would pay good money to watch Marin tell someone they dress like a hooker.
I sit quietly as I consider what she said, trying to understand what Finn might be dealing with.
When the back of my shirt is soaked with sweat and my thighs stick like suction cups to the bench, I can’t take it anymore.
“How long do we have to sit here and look at this before we can go? It’s hot as hell out here, Marin.”
“Now,” she says, standing. “I actually don’t think this is even that impressive.”
I snort out a laugh and hook my arm through hers. “You’re a funny kid.”
Her nose scrunches. “And you’re a funny mom.”
When we find Finn in the parking lot, he’s slumped on a bench with a deep crease between his eyebrows.
“Everything okay?” I ask as I sit down next to him.
“Just great.” He gives a sarcastic thumbs-up, “Can we just go?” He huffs, standing up and walking toward the Avion.
I stand, following him.
“Yeah, that’s fine. Did something happen? You seem upset.”
He rolls his eyes while shaking his head. “You’re so intuitive.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask calmly, trying to ignore the way his tone is begging for me to lose my ever-loving mind.
“Abby just broke up with me because she didn’t want to spend a summer waiting for her boyfriend to get back from vacation. Happy? You drag us on this little trip to fix your life while you ruin ours in the process. Seems about right. No, I do not want to talk about it, Mom.”
My breath escapes me in a gust. “Finn, that’s not fair.”
He scoffs. “Fair? I can’t wait to hear about what you think is fair.”
I squeeze my hands into tight fists at his emphasis. I half expect my skin to break open and bleed.
Finn’s face is stamped in sadness and anger and looks every bit of what it means to be heartbroken.
My anger is replaced by sympathy.
“Finn…”
Before I can figure out what to say next, Finn’s arm rears back before quickly snapping forward. He hurtles his phone against the Avion with a loud shatter and an angry yell.
His yell isn’t an actual word but holds the weight of a novel’s worth.
My mouth opens and then closes. Twice. Three times.
Marin scoffs and crosses her arms. “Really, Finny, you broke your phone over stupid Abby?”
Note to self, muzzle Marin in tense situations with her brother.
“Shut up, Marin! I don’t need to hear it from you, too.”
He runs his hand through his hair.
The wisdom I’ve accumulated from four decades of living on earth makes me want to explain all the reasons why these things happen—how relationships come and go before the right one clicks into place—but I don’t.
As much as I know about love and loss, I also know to a seventeen-year-old, none of my advice matters. My experience is irrelevant. I know his heartbreak is real and big and like the most devastating thing there is, even if it isn’t.
Finn slams the door of the Avion as I crouch down to pick up the shattered pieces of his phone, a pointless task that only serves to keep me from crying the frustrated tears I’m fighting.
Crouched down in a Marfa parking lot, it becomes painfully clear that no matter how many miles away from home we drive, we can’t outrun our own heartbreak.