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So I’d just grabbed my stuff—tent, duffel, canvas bag—and staked out a spot on the far side of the bus station, under a decorative mirror. It was becoming clear that I didn’t have another choice—I had to stay here overnight. There were a handful of people still in the bus station who also seemed to be settling in—an older guy stretching out on a bench, a couple, a guy who looked around my age—which meant at least I wouldn’t be alone here.
Trying to stop my thoughts from spinning, I did the math. The new bus would be here by seven, which meant I could be back in LA by noon—and my dad wouldn’t have to know about any of this. When the bus had first broken down, I’d called him, even though my battery was already in the red. But none of the calls had ended up going through—he was spending the weekend fishing with my uncle Drew at his cabin in Shaver Lake, which had famously spotty reception. Finally, giving up, I’d just texted him that there was a slight bus issue but nothing to worry about. As I sent it off, I said a silent thanks that my dad wouldn’t be back until Monday afternoon. I knew without question that he would not have been okay with me sleeping overnight—alone—on the floor of a bus station in Nevada, using my duffel as a pillow. But it seemed like that was exactly what was going to happen. There were no other options that I could see.
A slight wrinkle was the fact I was scheduled to fly out on the red-eye to New York Monday night—but considering it was Sunday afternoon, I wasn’t in danger of missing it. And even though I had no real desire to get on the plane and start college in a godforsaken place called Connecticut, I also knew that I had to, and I didn’t want to miss the flight my dad had paid for. I would just sleep here tonight, take the bus in the morning, and be home by Monday afternoon in plenty of time.
It was all going to be okay.
And if it wasn’t going to be okay, it would at least be fine.
But even as I was trying to convince myself of this, it was like I could practically see my two best friends standing in front of me, looking at me with mirror-image skeptical expressions. Kaitlyn and Deirdre Meredith—aka Katy and Didi, aka KatyDid—had been my best friends ever since they’d arrived in my small Los Angeles town fresh from Colorado, like avenging angels come to rescue me from the horrors of seventh grade. They were Black identical twins, with upturned noses, dark eyes, long curly hair, and finely honed bullshit detectors.
Darcy. I told you so, I could hear the Didi in my head saying. Her tone was trying to conceal her joy at getting to use her favorite phrase, but not quite succeeding.
We did warn you, Katy chimed in. What did you expect from Romy Andreoni?
It’s because she decided it would be okay, Didi said, her voice knowing.
Didi and Katy always seemed to see this as a giant flaw, but I just liked to stick to my decisions once I’d made them. Why would you want to walk around always second-guessing yourself? Sometimes, things actually were as clear as black and white. But my friends were always pointing out when I was doing it—sometimes in song. “And Darcy decides not to change her mind,” Katy was fond of singing, to the tune of “Anna Begins” by the band that was her mom’s favorite.
And it wasn’t like I never rethought anything—I’d fully changed my tune about kombucha, something I frequently pointed out to them. But for the most part, I’d found that my first instincts and impressions were the right ones. Doubting that was where you got into trouble.
Darcy just thought she was going to be in a movie, Didi said, her tone pitying. Like she always does.
Well, she kind of is! The Katy in my head chimed in. But it’s seeming kind of more like a horror movie than anything else. Maybe she should have specified the genre.
As I looked around, I realized she was right—I was in a deserted location, with a dying phone, stranded. Didi and Katy and I had started a movie club together, meeting every Friday night—it was called, creatively, Friday Night Movie Club. And since Didi always wanted horror, I had more than enough examples of situations just like this to compare it to.
But I immediately pushed this thought away and, trying to distract myself, I looked around. For the first time since I got there, I really took it in, the place that was going to be my home for the next fifteen hours. The bus station had clearly been the train station at some point in Jesse’s history. There was a large sign taking up most of one wall—NEVADA NORTHERN PASSENGER TRAIN BULLETIN was printed across the top, with columns for Ely, Cobre, and McGill, and spaces for train times underneath that.
The former train station—now bus station—was a big, open space with high ceilings and tile floors, a wooden chandelier hanging over the center of the room. There were wooden benches and a line of wooden cubbies along the back wall, which once upon a time must have been for pay phones—with none still in there. TELEPHONES, the sign above the cubbies lied.
The ticket windows were all dark, with blinds pulled down in front of them. There were two bathrooms in opposite corners, with the gender signs represented by a cowboy with gigantic pants and a cowgirl with a lasso. There was a water fountain and, tucked in the back next to the empty pay-phone cubbies, a vending machine with a flickering fluorescent light. I sighed as I looked at it, with the knowledge that this was where my dinner—and probably my breakfast, too—would be coming from.
I pulled out my phone again to see the time, and then a second later, wished I hadn’t. There was a wall clock, after all. My heart clenched as I looked at the battery icon—I was now down to just 2 percent.
Keeping my phone charged had been a nightmare the entire festival. There weren’t enough charging stations, and the lines to get to them were epic. And the reception and Wi-Fi had been so spotty that they seemed to immediately drain any charge you did manage to get.
I looked at the angry red of my battery icon, feeling like it was judging me. In my regular life—when I wasn’t in bus stations or music festivals in Nevada—my phone was always charged. It was one of the things I was forever bugging Katy about, since her phone was constantly dying, usually at the worst moment possible. “Two percent is for milk,” I’d always tell her. “Not phones!”
Now that I was in this state, I was haunted by every time I’d used my phone casually, just because I was bored. The time I’d managed to get some service and had idly scrolled DitesMoi for some celebrity gossip (Scarlett Johansson had brunch; Wylie Sanders of the Nighthawks was locked in a courtroom battle with his much-younger wife, fighting over both their Telluride estate and custody of their three-year-old twins; there were rumors Zendaya was having relationship drama; pictures of Amy Curry’s lavish Kentucky wedding). When on the bus, I’d reread two chapters of Theseus’s Sailboat in my ebook app. It was my all-time favorite novel, and even though I had a hardcover and paperback copy at home, I kept a digital copy in my library so I could always have it with me.
But in retrospect, the biggest phone mistake was recording the Nighthawks set for my dad. I should have just recorded “Darcy,” the song he’d named me after, and left it at that. Ever since college, he’d been a huge fan of the band—“the American U2,” according to several rock journalists, even though my dad preferred to think of U2 as “the Irish Nighthawks.” But he hadn’t seen them live in years, not since the lead singer and front man, Wylie Sanders, had set up his Vegas residency at the Wynn. When I’d suggested a few years ago that we could get tickets for my dad’s birthday, he shook his head. “The Nighthawks belong in an arena. Not in a casino next to a mall in the middle of the desert.” Then he’d smiled at me and bopped me on the head with his crossword (New York Times, Wednesday, half-done, pen). “But you’re sweet to think of it, kid. Let’s go when they’re back at the Bowl, okay?”
So even though I knew I was flirting with disaster, battery-wise, I’d pressed record for the whole hourlong set, holding my phone above my head as I danced and sang along to the words I’d known my whole life, some of the very first songs I’d ever learned. And while I was glad to have the recording for him, I was paying for it now.
Okay, then, said Didi in my head. So what’s the plan, Milligan?
I dropped my phone back in my bag and took a breath. I knew what I had to do, but that didn’t make doing it any easier. I had to ask one of the people here if I could use their charger.
I looked around at the four people that were left, weighing my options. There was the middle-aged guy sleeping on one of the benches, an angry-looking red sunburn across his mostly bald head. There was the couple with headphones on sitting under the big clock on the wall, watching a shared tablet. And there was the guy across from me, the one who looked around my age.
Figuring he was probably the best candidate, I leaned forward to look a little closer. This guy was leaning back against the wall underneath the closed ticket counter, his face obscured. He was sitting cross-legged, bent over a thick book. Every now and then he would absently run a hand through his hair as he read. The very fact he had a book with him was like spotting a mirage in the desert. This guy had brought a book—a hardcover, no less—to a music festival?
I agree! the Katy in my head said approvingly. Go ask the guy with the book. He’s a snack.
Don’t say snack, my inner Didi said, rolling her eyes at her sister.
Just because you don’t think so.
