Page 54 of Stops Along the Way
I lock eyes with Declan, who gives a small wave as he and his brother venture back up the highway to wait in their SUV.His expression is inscrutable, though. I didn’t mean to offend him by suggesting they could drive on without us, because it just felt like the obvious, polite thing to offer. Of course I’d prefer if he stays with us. He has to know that, right?
Wrapped around the truck’s rearview mirror is a little crochet chain with flowers made from light blue, pink, and white yarn, as well as a small lavender air freshener pouch. There’s a cooler of water bottles in the footwell.
Amelia and I are quiet as we wait, and the fear of what’s just happened hits me harder in the aftermath. We’re the adults here. The ones who had to figure out how to manage a broken-down car on the side of the highway far away from home. And we still don’t know how long the repairs will take, or exactly how far we still are from home, but there’s at least four more hours left to go.
My sister rose to the occasion. I didn’t.
I’m so used to my parents being there to take care of everything. Or, for most of my life, Amelia. But I’m leaving home in a few months, and while I know my family will still be there for me, they won’t actually bethere.
The bench seat squeaks beneath us as I rest my head on my sister’s shoulder, grateful she’s here with me now.
.....
At the mechanic, Declan and I wait outside while Amelia and Grady manage the situation in the shop. We excused ourselvesafter it began to seem too crowded in there, and there’s a perfectly good picnic table out here for us to sit at. We’re close together on the same side of the table, elbows resting side by side as we check our phones.
“How long do you think it’ll take to fix?” I ask when I can’t tolerate the quiet anymore.
Declan ponders for a second before he shakes his head. “I know absolutely nothing about cars.”
A few minutes later, our siblings exit through the open garage doors rather than the main entrance we originally walked into earlier. Amelia is holding papers, while Grady’s hands are clasped together. They’re bringing big we’ve-already-got-it-figured-out energy.
Which is exactly how I know a plan has been made that will only now be relayed to Declan and me, without our input.
“We’ve got it sorted,” Grady announces, resting his palms on the edge of the picnic table, narrowly missing a questionable patch of bird poop.
Amelia hands me the yellow papers, which look like a receipt or something. “The credit card is already on file, and they’ve got Mom’s number for any questions, but this should all be wrapped up in about two hours.”
“Oh, nice!” But I look down at the pages, wondering why she handed them to me.
She continues, “Since we’re only about four hours out, Mom and Dad said they’re fine with you just waiting here until it’s ready.”
My eyebrows drop down so fast. “Wait, me?”
“Yeah, I’ll go ahead and give Lee a ride back,” Grady explains, all buddy-buddy with my sister, who now seemingly has no qualms whatsoever about his usage of her nickname.
I stand and confront Amelia. “What? You’re just going to leave?”
She gestures toward Declan and then toward a single-story brick building nearby. “You two aren’t in a rush. Sam mentioned the roller rink that’s right there is a good spot to hang out and wait.”
I spin around and discover that Declan’s face is contorted and looks even more upset than I feel. He quickly jumps up and follows his brother to the SUV.
“Seriously?” I ask Amelia.
“What?” she asks. “I’ll be able to get home to see my friends, and you get to roller-skate with your boyfriend.”
I cross my arms so tightly it hurts, but I don’t release them. “I told you, noboyfriendjokes like that.”
“Just playing matchmaker,” Amelia adds with a smile, so sure that she’s doing something in my best interests.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“But it all works out,” she insists, genuinely not seeming to see my problem with the situation.
“You could’ve asked me first, at least. You always just decide what’s going to happen and then tell me.”
“I don’talwaysdo that,” she says, latching on to what she assumes to be hyperbole. That’s the worst part about arguingwith my sister—that anything that could be perceived as even the slightest exaggeration somehow negates the entire point. Maybe she doesn’t take control of the plans 100 percent of the time, but I wouldn’t put that number lower than 90. “Come on, isn’t this exactly what you would’ve come up with here anyway?”
“I don’t know, but if—”
