“You want a snack?” Summer said. I studied her, amazed at how unaffected she was while being treated like a misbehaving seven-year-old.

“I ate a Power Bar. I’m fine.” Holly rummaged through her purse for a phone charger. I settled into the driver’s seat with Summer as my navigator. My fatigue abated, I was more awake than I expected. I started the engine, looked at the GPS on my phone, and pulled into traffic.

“So, what’s the deal with you and Holly anyway? Why is she so crabby?”

Holly called from the back, “I can hear you, Summer. At least wait until I’m asleep to talk about me.” I tried to suppress a tiny wicked smile; for once Holly was the one on the hot seat.

CHAPTER TEN

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD

I pulled onto the I-10/Santa Monica Freeway following the directions on my phone. I’d never driven a camper before, and if the beeping horns were any indication, there were several massive blind spots. I lost a fuel tanker in one of them, and one outraged driver swerved onto the shoulder to get around us, in an exaggerated, dare I say, Hollywood display of irritation. Their MINI Cooper tires sprayed gravel like a tiny hissing cockroach, and the driver threw his middle finger out the window in case we didn’t catch the first screw-you signs.

From the back Holly said, “Jesus, Sam. Alive, okay? Get us there alive?”

“I thought California drivers would be more laid back.”

“They don’t have rifles in the back windows of their trucks like they do in Texas, so this is laid back,” Summer said.

“In Wisconsin we cuss you out quietly and then send a casserole in apology,” I said.

“I had a casserole once. Delish. All that cheese and soup. It was for the release party for the movie Twister in Oklahoma back in 1996. We all had to dress like we’d been in a tornado and bring a dish to pass. I’d never heard that expression before, a dish to pass. I brought an empty bowl.” Summer laughed.

“You were in Twister?” I asked. I marveled at the ease and difficulty of her life. The flexibility, the uncertainty, the struggle. I couldn’t fathom getting through a day not knowing what was next, scrabbling for every job, fighting for exposure. I did peaceful invisibility pretty well as an occupational therapist. People who needed me focused on their deficits and not mine.

“Could you two keep it down? I’m going to sleep so I can be fresh to drive when Sleeping Beauty falls apart.”

Summer giggled and mimed a cranky face, pointing her thumb to the back, where Holly sat examining her phone. I caught a glimpse of Holly’s face in the rearview mirror, concentrating, her fingers scrolling.

We were on our way, and I felt pretty good driving. After a complicated bunch of turns, I realized that you had to give the bus more time to adjust to changes in direction. The steering wheel had a bit of slack to it, and the brakes needed a couple of pumps if you were serious about stopping. The sun dropped to the horizon, and before long, darkness fell. Summer had fallen asleep like a child, open mouthed and immediately. Back in Wisconsin, Katie was no doubt under the thin covers in her stiff hospital bed, awaiting answers from us, her doctors, her parents. She slept on her side, her fine hair in a tangle, one arm around her own waist. I’d rubbed her back often during past chemotherapy visits, still recalling her slight shoulders, the feel of her ribs under my hands. I would call her the minute I had some privacy to tell her what was happening, to talk about the results of the blood work, see how she was feeling. I wanted to have Peanut in hand before I did.

I rarely went a day without talking to Katie. We weren’t big texters and, against all modern trends, liked talking to each other on the phone. We told each other everything, but since her remission, I’d tried to keep her stress to a minimum. I didn’t complain about my job, didn’t take on irritating committees at Maddie’s school or talk about how sometimes I was so very lonely. The cancer made me much more careful, and in some ways, it made me miss our less-careful conversations. Talks that emotionally took care of both of us. I cracked the window, and a stream of cool, dry air hit my forehead.

As the miles unfolded, I decided driving at night might be the way to survive this trip. The traffic was manageable, the white lines straight and steady. We were on I-15 North and making good time. I was now eagerly waiting for a text from Beautiful Drew. When the ding came, I lifted my phone, trying to keep a handle on my delight.

BDREW: Katie is resting. Bebe has been discharged with oxygen. No need to reply.

Here I was, wondering about Katie, and Drew reassured me. I’d often wondered at the electricity of thought and its long-reaching connection between people. Had Drew and I established that?

I breathed; for now, the chaos of the last few days felt handled.

Men like Drew. What could their lives be like? Handsome, smart, a head full of hair. Generous, too, it seemed. I wondered if he would fall for Katie like so many had before. Maybe that would be nice . . . a romantic interest, something fresh among the rot of cancer. I blinked at a feeling that seemed to seep from a crack in my heart somewhere. Jealousy, was it? I chased it, tapped it on the shoulder, tried to get a look at it. It said, Finders keepers in the most childish of tones.

Every so often I lamented being single to Maddie’s friends’ parents. They reliably replied, Nothing wrong with being single, or some other semisupportive crap. I found it curious and frankly annoying that this reassurance came from people who were not single. It was as if they were saying, I’m not single, so it’s not okay for me, but it’s totally acceptable for you to settle for it. Sometimes it came with a sage head tilt and condescending arm rub. As if my singleness were a bad case of acne that wasn’t going away.

Honestly, I tried not to overthink my quiet single life. I focused on my job, which, like most health-care jobs, was arduous. After and before work, it was all Maddie, her activities and all that was required of families like driving, fundraising, and feeding teams. Organizers rarely acknowledged a single-parent home, so I had to do all the things kids with both parents had to do. In the quiet evening, though, I’d catch an old Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts rom-com on the television. And I can tell you this: no one in the world wants to be single during a rom-com. No one in the world says, Thank God nobody looks at me that way. Thank God nobody sprints through an airport and shouts “I love you” just before going through security. Every time I thought about doing something about being alone, dating someone, that old terror of conflict would root me to my seat.

I thought about the ease with which Drew gave me his number. Could it be he was interested in me? Maybe I was such an obvious nonromantic option that just by looking at my sleepy, drab self, he knew he was safe to hand out his number to me. Like if his soon to be ex-wife saw me, she’d think, That old chestnut? Maybe he had a love interest, and she’d probably say, Sure, give her your number. Hell, have her over for a sleepover. I’m not worried.

A few fat raindrops hit the windshield. This was travel for you; it provided the time and enough out-of-context living that allowed for movement down untraveled highways, both real and metaphorical. It had been a long, long time since a reasonably young single man had been interested in me, as far as I knew. It was no wonder I didn’t have the map to all the social cues.

I let people think that I didn’t date because of my love for Jeff, but only Katie and I knew that wasn’t the reason for my singledom after being widowed. It kept me safe and conflict-free. What if I got into another relationship that I didn’t know how to get out of? It served me well to be the brokenhearted widow, and I played the part. The message of an epic, lost love stopped people in their matchmaking tracks. I only wished for one thing: that Jeff had lived long enough to give Maddie a sibling. I’d been an only child with a tyrant of a father. Once I was gone, Maddie would be alone; she’d need someone on her side, and the thought made my throat close up.

I turned the radio on, kept the volume low, heard the strains of an old country ballad. I thought of Holly and Rosie—their obvious adoration. Holly’s voice speaking softly to Rosie, “I’ll be home soon,” the kindness there. The courage it must have taken to admit that you were not like the majority; that you were part of the people of the world who could be furiously hated for the act of loving.