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Gingerly, I run my finger over the delicate opal and silver cuff bracelet on my wrist, the most precious thing of my mother’s I own. She made it herself, affixed opals that look like the sky, ocean, and sand onto the ends. Hammered the silver until it pebbled. That was back when she was a beautiful starving artist in Malibu, the summer before she met my father and fell in love with him and his purple roses.
Max’s growl intercepts my daydream daze. “I want you to come home.”
I stick my tongue out at my reflection. “This is my life, Max. Don’t take it from me.”
“Goddamnit, Rubes.” Exasperation cracks in his voice. “I’m not trying to do that. I’m trying to keep you safe. Keep you around.”
“I will be around,” I say, even as my lungs constrict. “You’ll probably be sick of me when I come rolling back into town, ready to kick your bony ass.”
He chuckles. “How long you think you’ll be gone?”
“Why? You miss me?” I ask, watching the man with the cowboy hat exit the Gas ‘n Go with an ice-cold bottle of Coca-Cola. He goes to his pump, taking a long sip as he funnels unleaded into his lowrider.
“Hell no. I hate this job of yours.”
When I graduated from college five years ago with a degree in marketing, I started up my family’s small business social media account. Built it up from two followers to a healthy five thousand.
Over the line, I hear the slam of a keyboard. “I don’t know how you do it. Everyone bitching about something when all they are is just fucking flowers.”
“They’re not just flowers, Max.” I instantly smile. Flowers are safe. Soft. But they prick when ruffled. “They’re bright sides.”
Everything has a bright side. Even with my condition, even when assholes on social media tear up the comments, you can always make it better. You can always survive it.
“Here’s a tip, Max. Don’t feed the trolls. And smile.”
Get a life. Go date a girl. Go have good sex.
“I don’t smile,” he grumbles. Then, in a resigned voice, he says, “So far, what’s been your sunflower on this trip?”
Our long-time game perks me right up. “Hmm.” I decide not to tell him about riding the mechanical bull in Nashville. “I saw a merman at an alligator farm and petting zoo. It was incredible and terrifying in all the best ways.”
“Oh, yeah?” There’s a smile in his voice. “Where was that?”
I laugh. “Nice try. I’m hanging up now. I love you. Tell dad I love him too.”
I end the call and exit the booth.
With a hopeful exhale, I stretch my arms out and tilt my face to the sun, drinking in its warm rays. I love the southwest. I love the wicked sun and the dust and the palm trees sweeping the glossy blue sky, letting me know I’m alive. I love wearing tank tops and flip-flops and feeling half-naked and wild and free. This rugged country is not meant for everyone, but I have lived here for a week and survived.
And next?
Beach or mountains. But how to choose?
An idea comes to me.
“Excuse me,” I say, rushing up to Mr. Cowboy Hat to intercept his empty pop bottle. “Can I have that if you’re done?”
He blinks and lifts the brim of his cowboy hat to see me better. “It’s trash,senorita.”
“It is, but it’s my trash.”
He looks puzzled as he hands it over to me. With a bounce in my step, joy blooming inside me, I head to my car and spread the map out on the sun-warmed hood. I place the bottle on top of it. And I spin.
It’s not a game, but living a life I don’t have to take seriously feels like one. I can ramble and roll and have hopes and dreams, too.
As I watch the glass bottle’s tip go ‘round and ‘round, I wonder about destiny.
You can only do so much, my Dad would constantly remind me.Watch your triggers. You wouldn’t want to pass out on the treadmill, would you?Doctor Lee might warn.You’re psychotic for even doing this, Max would tell me.You can have a good life despite your heart, or a bad one because of it,my Aunt Jonnie used to say.So, choose, toots.
