The next day, Sofìa wakes me up late, not with a loud trip to the bathroom but with an insistent shake of my shoulder. “Time to hit the road,” she tells me. “Anthony’s on his way.”
I had packed my one pathetic bag the night before, but I assumed we would be leaving later in the day. When I mention this blearily to her, she collapses on the couch beside me and says, “Anthony wants to leave now. Ben’s grabbing us some coffee.” She stifles a yawn. “At least we got to sleep in a bit. You should hurry, though. We only have a few minutes.”
Heart pounding, I speed through my morning routine, stumbling over rugs and bumping into furniture. Now that the time has come to leave, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. This is nothing, I tell myself. Nothing compared to leaving home for New York, without having any idea of what I was going to do and nobody to count on. This time, at least, there’s Sofìa. And Anthony Marino. There’s a real purpose.
But still, when the front door opens and Ben announces, “He’s here!” I don’t know whether to laugh or vomit.
There’s no time, though, to hesitate. Ben hoists our bags into his arms, then disappears down the staircase. Sofìa gestures for me to exit in front of her so she can lock up. She grins at me, the traces of her earlier fatigue vanishing in the wake of her excitement. “Let’s go,” she says, prodding me again. I’m not moving fast enough. “I haven’t been out of the city in months. I need some air.”
As I descend the many flights of stairs to the street, I swallow an unexpected burst of tears. Everything feels so permanent. As though every decision carries a repercussion. When I rebuffed Mom’s offer to return home, I rejected the opportunity to be a little kid again. To go back to the known. And now leaving this apartment feels like I’m abandoning another buoy. I wish I were different. Even just a little bit. An ounce more outspoken. Confident. I could stop in the lobby, hold Sofìa back, and whisper to her that I’m nervous. That I don’t know what I’m walking into and I’m overwhelmed with anxiety. I know Sofìa. She wouldn’t be able to conceal her surprise. This is just a fun vacation for her, with her group of friends. She hasn’t thought about this from my perspective, as the outsider, and I would sound like a wet blanket. But she’s a good person. After a minute, she’d soften up and understand. She’d circle her arm around my waist and squeeze me and tell me to breathe. We’re only going for a short trip, she’d say. There’s nothing to worry about. And maybe, if I were this other version of myself, I would be comforted by this.
But I’m not that person. I don’t want to burden Sofìa with my insecurities. And I don’t want to be burdened by them myself, either. If I talk about my anxiety, it becomes something real. She’d watch me the entire trip, and I’d feel obligated, somehow, to stick to this story. Once I did overcome my panic, I would still be tethered to it, because of her. So as I cross the threshold of Sofìa’s building, into the morning air, which is already tinged with the weight of summer humidity, I steel myself. I can do this.
Instantly, my eyes find Anthony. He’s standing beside a dilapidated white van, holding a Starbucks coffee and talking to Ben, who has apparently had time to load the bags into the back. When Anthony spots me, his face breaks out into a smile. I make my way toward him, relieved by his easy confidence. There’s no sign he’s regretting his decision. He’s still happy he’s chosen me.
“Driving this,” Anthony says to me, gesturing to the van with a laugh, “makes me feel like a serial killer.”
“It’s—,” I begin, accepting a coffee from Ben. It’s pretty beaten up is what I have to stop myself from saying. Instead, I ask politely, “Is it big enough for all of us?”
“See for yourself,” Anthony says.
Ben slides open the back door. The backseat looks comfortable enough for two people. I’m glad I’ll be in the front. And the rest of the space, behind the uncomfortable vinyl seat, has been cleared out for cargo, down to the van’s steel frame.
“Do we really need all that equipment?” Sofìa asks Anthony, eyeing the carefully packed crates stuffed into the back, which loom precariously over the seat.
“You’re just lucky there’s room for you,” Anthony tells her. She frowns when he nudges her toward the backseat, where she joins Ben with a groan. “This one’s riding shotgun,” he says, pointing at me.
Once I’m in my seat, my nerves start to dissipate. I don’t know what it is. As we pass through the neighborhood I’ve circled endlessly on foot over the past month, everything feels new. I don’t recognize the deli on the corner. I’m staring at it like it’s a still life in a fancy, hushed museum. The rumble of the van’s engine vibrates through the seats, like a hum in my skeleton, and I feel myself relax. You can just pick up your life and change it all, in a second. I had forgotten this feeling, sometime in these past four weeks. You can get used to anything, and quickly. I had let myself settle into Greenpoint. But what am I attached to, really? Can I even trust my own emotions, if only a few minutes can change my mind so radically?
I carry this newfound resolve—like I’ve swallowed a beam of sunlight—with me, quietly, as Sofìa chats excitedly with Ben, and Anthony negotiates the traffic, until finally we escape the city, and then my confidence is quickly replaced by another, less existential concern, that this old grease bucket might splinter apart if Anthony keeps pushing it so hard.
Despite how large the van appears on the outside, Anthony’s limbs are too long for these seats. While I’m able to at least tuck my feet into a cross-legged position, Anthony is all angles, like a praying mantis behind the wheel. He fiddles with his phone, searching for the right playlist, while I turn back to check on Sofìa and Ben. Sofìa, earphones in, gives me the thumbs-up. Ben is already asleep, head resting on her shoulder. I return Sofìa’s gesture and force myself to face forward again. I’m actually doing this. And what’s more, I’m actually having fun.
As we race down the highway, Anthony sings softly along to the music, a strange, twisty song that’s a mix of rap and maudlin pop. I don’t like the tune at first, but then it ends too soon. I ask him to play it again, and suddenly I’m singing along, too. I discover in the choruses that Anthony can’t sing, either, but his quavering falsetto lifts me anyway. His confidence is contagious. He smiles at me, sideways, holding on to a note at the end of the song. It’s a meaningless gesture, but I can’t help it. I know I’m going to remember this music for the rest of my life. It will always bring me back to this moment, instantly and magically. Every time I hear it, I’ll think of Anthony’s face—that inconsequential spontaneous smile—but what I’ll remember most of all is how happy I am, because in this instant I know I’ve made the right decision. Not just to trust Anthony, but to leave home. To try to become someone new. And maybe, I think, holding this same note with Anthony as best as my own singing voice will let me, I already have.
About four hours later, halfway through the fifth round of his playlist, with New York City a distant memory behind us, surrounded now by the rocky, overgrown wilds of New England, Anthony finally takes his foot off the pedal and maneuvers us off the highway, down an old stretch of road. We aren’t following any maps—Anthony seems to know the way perfectly, from memory, despite the many turns we’ve made, onto smaller and smaller roads as we’ve crossed state lines and meandered into what feels like the uninhabited reaches of a forest. As we slow down, the car fills with fumes from the overheating engine. I hadn’t realized how hot it is out here, or how quiet. The sun beats down on the roof, and the air is muggy and thick and still. For a moment, as we navigate the narrow road through the woods, it feels as if I can’t breathe. I remember my thoughts from this morning, how quickly things can change, though in reverse this time, and I tell myself not to lose my grip on the euphoria I’d just been feeling. It’s like sailing, Dad had often said to me. When you hit a rough patch, you have to keep your eyes on the horizon.
“Anthony,” Sofìa calls. She has to shout over the music and the buzz of the van’s frame rattling over the many potholes. “Where the hell are you taking us?”
Anthony gives his phone a few taps, silencing the music. Without it, the engine gets louder still, but I’m somehow aware at the same time of the stifling silence all around us. It shrouds us like a thick blanket. Just a few hours out of the city, and suddenly we are in the middle of nowhere. It feels like we’re alone, just the four of us. As if there’s no one else for miles and miles around. And we’re not even there yet.
“We’re picking up Mads,” Anthony says. “Betty needs her boyfriend.”
Sofìa mumbles something about not killing us on the way there, but I can’t focus on what she’s saying. Anthony’s driving is making me nauseous, and it’s too hot in this van, even with the AC blasting. I jolt at a sudden warmth on my knee, and locate Anthony’s hand there. He squeezes, clamping his fingers around the soft, ticklish spot where my knee and thigh meet. I don’t intend to, and I don’t expect it, but with an unanticipated yet welcome sense of relief, I find myself smiling again.