“Yes,” my dad said, sighing. And then I hang up the phone. On my dad. I hit the red button on my phone, like I’d just had a normal conversation that ended with “See you soon, love ya!” or some other pleasant sign-off.
Have I mentioned I’m pissed? I’m pissed at my dad, for thinking he could keep something like this from us. I’m angry that he thought I couldn’t handle it, that he thought I would fall apart. I’m pissed that he was so selfish that he felt the need to keep things from me, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with me being pissed off or upset. But most of all, I’m mad at Jordan. I’m mad that he didn’t tell me what he knew, that he never felt he could be completely honest with me. I’m mad that he felt he needed to protect me, when I never gave him any indication I was weak.
I feel like I’m on that reality show Joe Schmo, where it turned out all the participants except one were paid actors. I feel like Joe Schmo. Courtney Schmo, whom everyone is lying to. I take a shower and change into my pajamas, then spend the next seven hours in my hotel room, watching celebrity countdowns on E! I’m starting to feel a little better, except for a moment during the countdown for the twenty-five hottest blondes, when I realize that some of the people featured on the countdown aren’t natural blondes. Which feels like they’re cheating. And being LIARS. CHEATING, LYING, BLONDES.
At four in the morning, I call Jordan’s phone.
“Hello?” he says, sounding wide awake. I hear the sound of the TV in the background, so I know he’s not sleeping in his car. I try to think of the worst place possible that would have a TV. Jail? A serial killer’s basement? I try to wish him there.
“Oh, hello,” I say, as if it’s perfectly normal for me to be calling him at four in the morning.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” he says. I’ve just turned my phone on, and as he’s saying it, I hear the notification of my missed calls beeping in my ear. Fifty-six missed calls from Jordan. Ten from my dad. Six from Jocelyn None from Lloyd. What an asshole. Although I’m not sure what’s worse. Not calling at all, or calling fifty-six times.
“Really?” I say. “I must not have heard my phone.”
“Courtney, where are you? Let me come and get you. We need to talk about this.”
“I’m not telling you, and we don’t need to talk about it,” I say, trying to sound like a bitch. “I was just calling to make sure you still plan on driving the rest of the way to school with me tomorrow.” I’ve thought about this a little bit, and I’ve decided I have two options:
Drive to school with Jordan, getting there on time. Once at school, follow previous plan of ignoring him and meeting fabulous college boyfriend.
Don’t tell Jordan where I am, and find other way from North Carolina to Boston, which would most likely entail calling my dad to find out how I can get a plane ticket or a train or something. This actually might not be that bad, except I have a bad feeling my dad might hightail it to North Carolina and insist on escorting me to Boston himself. Either way, I would be late to school. And I have not gone through all of this to be late to orientation.
“Courtney, stop,” Jordan says. “You’re acting like a crazy person. Now tell me where you are, I’ll come and get you, and we can talk. We can even start driving again, if you want.”
“I’m not acting like a crazy person,” I say, even though I totally am. Although I guess it’s all relative. Finding out your dad is cheating on your mom with your ex-boyfriend’s mother, and that your ex-boyfriend knew about it and didn’t want to tell you so bad that he made up a MySpace girl is pretty traumatic. So calling someone at four in the morning probably isn’t the worst thing I could be doing to deal with it. “And besides,” I say. “Why would we start driving at four in the morning?” Jordan’s driving is questionable at best on a good day, one where the sun is shining and there’s no traffic.
“Because I know you’re worried about getting there on time,” he says, sounding like it’s obvious.
“We’re still going to get there on time,” I say, a panicky feeling starting in my stomach. “We only have twelve hours to go.”
“I know,” he agrees. “We will still get there on time, but I just thought it might make you feel better if we left now. Since we’re behind schedule.”
“But we’re not behind schedule,” I say, exasperated. “We planned on staying in North Carolina until tomorrow.” I glance at the clock. “Well, technically today, since it’s four in the morning.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Which you would have known if you’d read the damn itinerary I gave you.”
“I lost it,” he says.
“Of course you did,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said! That I’m not surprised you lost the itinerary, since you had no interest in any kind of schedule for this trip!”
“Well, maybe now I do,” he says, sounding indignant.
“Maybe now you do what?” I ask. He’s watching ESPN in the background. I can hear the SportsCenter music through the phone. I wonder if serial killers have cable. Probably. Lots of serial killers are totally normal people, with jobs and friends and all the pay channels.
“Maybe now I care about the schedule for the trip,” he says, his voice sounding firm.
“Well, whatever,” I say breezily. “Listen, I didn’t call to fight with you.” Which is kind of a lie. I did kind of call to fight with him. Or at least to wake him up, which obviously didn’t work, since he was up at four in the morning like some kind of psychopath. Although I’m up at four in the morning as well, so I guess if I’m using that argument, I’m a psychopath, too. But we already knew that.
“So then why did you call?”
“I called,” I say, sighing, “to make sure that you’re still going to give me a ride to school tomorrow.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Because there have been some weird events going on today, and so I thought if you’d decided to kick me off this trip, it would behoove you to let me know, so that I can make alternate arrangements.” I just used the word “behoove” in a sentence. This is definitely not good. I’m finally cracking up.
“I’m not kicking you off the trip,” he says.
“Good.”
“In fact, I’d like to get back started on the trip right now,” he says. “So tell me where you are and I’ll come pick you up, and we’ll get back on the road.”
“No,” I say. “I’m tired. And if you had your trip itinerary, you’d know that we’re not scheduled to leave until eight o’clock. And it’s only four. So we have four more hours of sleep.”
“But we’re not sleeping,” he points out.
“Well, I would be,” I say, “if you would let me off the phone.” Which is obviously a lie.
“Fine,” he says.
“Fine,” I say.
“Wait!”
“What now?!”
“Court?”
I don’t say anything.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I say. “What is it?”
“I love you.” And then he hangs up the phone.
jordan the trip
Day Three, 7:56 a.m.
“Dude, I’m sorry,” B. J. says. “It’s all my fault.”
“It isn’t your fault, really,” I say, sighing. “It’s mine. I set up the situation, so I can’t be pissed at you when I have to deal with the fallout.” I’m in my hotel room, on the phone with B. J., and I just finished recounting the night’s activities.
“Well, look on the bright side,” he says. “At least now you don’t have to worry about her finding out. She already knows.”
“Yeah, that makes me feel much better,” I say sarcastically, looking around the room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Courtney and I are supposed to get back on the road soon. Although she hasn’t called me since this morning’s four a.m. phone call, so who knows.
“I just mean,
” B. J. persists, “that maybe now you can make things right.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting down on the bed. To make matters worse, I have developed a horrible headache, and was forced to buy a travel pack of aspirin at the front desk, which cost me five bucks.
“I mean you have nothing to lose now,” B. J. says. “You can try to get her back without worrying about her dad and all that shit. You guys can really deal with what’s going on, instead of some fucked-up fake shit.”
“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “Maybe. But she was pretty rip-shit last night.” My call waiting beeps. “That’s her,” I say.
“Good luck,” B. J. says. I click over.
“Are you going to tell me where you are now?” I ask. I open the packet of aspirin and step into the bathroom to fill a glass of water. I feel hung over, even though I’m not.
“Are you leaving to come and get me immediately?” she asks, all bossy like.
“Yes, Courtney, I’m leaving immediately,” I tell her, sighing. It’s hard to balance a glass of water, the aspirin, and my phone in this tiny hotel bathroom. “Now can you tell me where you are?”
“Let me hear you actually leaving,” she demands. “I’m not telling you where I am until you actually leave.”
“How the hell are you supposed to know that I’m actually leaving?” I ask. I drop one of the aspirin into the sink. “Shit,” I swear, grabbing it before it makes it down the drain.
“What’s going on?” Courtney asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Now will you tell me where you are?” I look at the aspirin and wonder how many germs are on it and if I’ll die just from putting it in my mouth. I wonder what’s worse—having a headache or eating this bad aspirin.
“I want to hear you leaving,” she says.
“Again, how can you hear me leaving?” I definitely need this aspirin if she’s going to be acting like this all day.
“I want to hear the door close behind you.”
I slam the bathroom door shut. “There,” I say. “Now tell me.”
“How do I know that wasn’t just the bathroom door?” she asks suspiciously.
“You don’t,” I say. “But you were the one who came up with the criteria of how to know I was actually leaving, so don’t get mad if your method isn’t foolproof.” I turn on the water and rinse my aspirin off, figuring an aspirin that’s been rinsed off is better than an aspirin that hasn’t. Besides, if it weren’t for Courtney, I probably wouldn’t even have thought twice about the germs. She has this uncanny need for germfree environments and I think it’s rubbed off on me.
“I can hear you running water!” Courtney says. “Unbelievable! Although I can’t say I’m surprised, since you have proved yourself to be totally untrustworthy.”
“Hey, do you know anything about germs in sinks?” I look at the aspirin questioningly. I really, really want that aspirin.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I dropped some aspirin in the sink and I want to know if it’s okay to take it.”
“Why can’t you just throw it out and take another?” she asks, exasperated.
“Because I bought one of those travel packs that only has two pills in it,” I say, still looking at the offending aspirin. Whatever. I pop it in my mouth with a copious amount of water.
“Just buy another travel pack,” she says. “I wouldn’t take it. It probably has sperm on it.”
“Why would it have SPERM on it?” I ask, horrified. I open my mouth and look in the mirror, but it’s too late. I’ve already swallowed it.
“Because I saw an exposé once on 20/20 about hotel rooms, and they’re all covered in sperm,” she says.
“Fine,” I lie. “I’ll buy another travel pack. Now I really am leaving, so tell me where you are.”
“I’m at the Bellevue Motel,” she says. “It’s—”
“I know where it is,” I say, sighing. We were at the same fucking motel. This whole time, we were in the same building. “I’ll meet you outside in two minutes.” I slide my cell phone shut and look at myself in the mirror, wondering what’s more likely—me, dying from hotel bathroom germs, or Courtney ever forgiving me.
courtney the trip
Day Three, 11:13 a.m.
I can’t believe he swallowed that disgusting pill. (Like it wasn’t totally obvious.) I can’t believe he was in the same hotel as me. I can’t believe he told me he loved me. I can’t believe I’m still on this trip.
We’re in Jordan’s car, on the road, and we haven’t spoken for three hours. The vibe in the car isn’t exactly bad. It’s almost a relief, like a bunch of tension has been released, and now we can just drive.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I announce.
“Okay,” Jordan says. Half an hour later, we pull into a rest stop. I’m beginning to hate rest stops. I feel like I spend half my life in a rest stop. Or in a rest stop bathroom.
I use the bathroom quickly, and try not to think about how gross it is that I’ve been using public bathrooms way too much lately. Although if Jordan took that aspirin, he should definitely be more concerned about his germiness than I should. And good luck getting anyone to kiss him at college. I’m going to tell everyone he took a random, germ-infested sperm pill. Disgusting.
I wash my hands and dry them with a roll of suspect-looking paper towels, figuring drying my hands with gross paper towels is better than not drying them at all.
My phone rings. Jocelyn.
“Hey,” I say, balancing the phone against my shoulder and tossing the paper towel into the overflowing garbage can.
“Courtney, B. J. just told me what happened,” she says. “I am so, so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I say, sighing. I look at myself in the mirror over the sink. My eyes are a little bloodshot and my hair’s a little messy, but other than that, I don’t look like someone whose world is falling apart.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m sure I will, at some point,” I say. “But right now, I just want to get off this trip and away from Jordan. I’m so mad, Joce.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I understand, but it’s…” she trails off.
“But it’s what?” I ask. “Don’t even tell me you’re taking his side.” What a traitor.
“No, I’m not taking his side,” she says. “I’m just saying, you have to remember that things aren’t always completely black and white, Court.”
“Yeah, well, it’s black and white that he lied to me.” I feel myself starting to get mad again. I pull a brush out of my purse and start fixing my hair. Now that I’m single again, I need to look hot. So that hot, honest college guys will want me.
“Did you know he’s the one that insisted you guys still go on the trip?” Jocelyn asks.
I stop brushing. “He did?”
“Yeah,” Jocelyn says. “Your dad didn’t want you to. But Jordan convinced him.”
“How do you know that?” I ask softly.
“B. J. told me.”
“But why would Jordan do that?”
“Because he wanted to spend time with you.” I don’t say anything. “Listen,” she says. “I’m not saying what he did was right, Court. I’m just saying don’t turn your back on things just because you’re hurting. Try to at least think about his side of it.” She hangs up, and I slide my phone back into my purse.
When I walk out of the bathroom, I almost bump into Jordan, who’s standing against the soda machine.
“Watch it,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I almost bumped into you.”
“Courtney,” he says, taking my hand. I pull away. “I want to talk about this.”
“We’re not talking about anything,” I say, walking toward the exit. “We’ve talked about it enough.”
“We haven’t talked about it at all,” he says, following me.
“And that’s enough,” I say. And it is. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to deal with it. My phone starts ringing again, and I
check the caller ID. It’s my dad.
“Ignore it,” Jordan says. We’re in the parking lot now, standing near his car. I look at him. “Ignore it,” he says again.
“I’m supposed to ignore him, but you expect me to talk to you?” I say, crossing my arms. That makes no sense. One of them is just as bad as the other.
“Yes,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because he’s your dad, and he’s always going to be in your life, so it can wait,” he says. “But if you and I don’t deal with this now, we might end up getting into a situation that can’t be repaired.”
“It already can’t be repaired,” I say, feeling myself starting to tear up. This is why I didn’t want to talk about it. Because I don’t want to have to deal with this right now. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to get upset. I’m enjoying the very numb, very comfortable, very avoidant feeling that I’m having right now.
“It can,” he says. “Courtney, I love you.”
“Don’t say things like that,” I say, turning around and trying to open the door to his truck. But it’s locked. “It’s not fair.”
“What isn’t?” he asks, studying me. “What’s not fair? Telling you how I feel?”
“Open the door for me,” I say, determined not to break down.
“No,” he says. “I want to talk about this.”
I don’t say anything, because I know if I do, I’m going to start crying. And I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. We stand there for a minute, me in front of the passenger door of his truck, my back to him, him standing behind me, holding the keys. Finally, he opens the door.
“Thank you,” I say, launching myself into the car. Only twelve more hours and then this trip will be over. I lay my head against the back of the seat and pray I can fall asleep.
the trip jordan
Day Three, 7:45 p.m.
Courtney doesn’t say one word to me for the rest of the trip. We drive almost straight through to Boston, only stopping to go to the bathroom and grab snacks at a gas station. For the last six hours or so, she sleeps, probably because she didn’t last night. Neither did I, but crazily enough, I don’t feel tired.