Chapter_18_Patriotic

“I don’t want to go to Saugatuck anymore,” I summon up the courage to tell Wyatt.

“Okaaay,” Wyatt says, taking a bite of his chipotle cheddar chalupa combo, processing my change of plans in a booth at Taco Bell. “Why not?”

“I think going to your hometown and seeing you with your mom and brother has inspired me. I’d really love if we spent a few days in Chicago with my family.”

The broken dynamic between Wyatt and his family has actually made me long for the warm cohesiveness of my own.

“I get it. Quid pro quo. You do realize going to Boston wasn’t on the itinerary. It was a family emergency,” Wyatt says.

“Oh, it’s not a competition. Like, at all.” I hold up my pathetic bean burrito, inspecting it all over, like it’s toxic sludge.

“You always get the wrong things at fast-food places,” Wyatt says.

“Probably because you shouldn’t eat fast food to begin with.” I take a microbite, discovering the taste and texture inside my mouth.

The professional food writer in me is judging.

After a few bites, though, I can admit that this tastes... pretty good?

“You can have my mom’s sandwiches in the car if you don’t like it,” Wyatt says.

“It’s fine, actually.” I look down at Matilda, leashed to the leg of the table. She’s looking up at us expectantly, wagging her tail. “No, sweetie. You can’t have this. Stick with dog food.”

Wyatt takes a huge bite of his chalupa with satisfaction and lets out an exaggerated “Mmmmmm,” pretending he’s a character in one of his commercials.

“So, are you okay with going to Chicago to see my family instead of Saugatuck?” I ask.

“Of course. We can cancel our hotel. You know I’d rather spend quality time with just family than mingle with a bunch of overly friendly gay bears with excessive back hair.”

“Actually, that sounds amazing right now,” I joke. “But no, I feel like seeing my family might be cozier. It feels right to touch both of our home bases before the baby’s here. Maybe my sisters have some wise advice.”

“Totally agree. Your sisters can finally have the baby shower they’ve been wanting to throw us,” Wyatt adds.

“Zia said the same thing. We’ll see if they follow through on that.”

“You know your family loves a good party.”

Going to Chicago for the holidays is always a fascinating experience for Wyatt. Unlike his tiny family, I have seven hundred thousand close relatives: besides my five older sisters, there are dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins, with nieces and nephews that multiply every year and my incredible parents at the center of us all.

Wyatt once said my family is like the funny, good-looking, thoughtful sitcom family you grew up watching and wished you had.

Leaving Taco Bell, I text my sisters and call my parents to confirm we’re coming. My mom and dad—never not on speakerphone together—literally scream. They’re always ready to welcome their son and his boyfriend at the drop of a hat.

Back on the highway, I’m in the driver’s seat.

Wyatt needs to adjust his internal Excel spreadsheet to exclude the Saugatuck leg of our trip, reimagining a few days with the Petterellis.

We’ll spend time at home with an endless parade of fun, games and long, dynamic conversations over excellent Italian food and red wine.

“So what do you think happened? With my mom and stuff?” Wyatt asks, handing me half of Beverly’s turkey sandwich. I guess and stuff means his dad. It’s probably wise to use the drive between Massachusetts and Illinois to dissect his own family. With my family, there won’t be any alone time between us. “You haven’t said much about it.”

“I didn’t think you were ready to share. And I didn’t want to pry,” I say.

“Yeah, but aren’t you curious?” he asks.

“Of course I am. Don’t turn a thing into another thing.”

“I’m not turning anything into anything.”

“Then just tell me what you’re thinking about it all.”

If I don’t bring up things first, Wyatt assumes I’m not interested. His penchant for bottling everything up is cute until he’s about to burst.

“I stayed up last night reading some of the letters I took,” Wyatt says, testing my curiosity level.

I finish half of my sandwich and notice he’s barely touched his. “Can I eat your sandwich if you don’t want it?”

“Oh my god. I’m telling you something deeply troubling and you’re talking about sandwiches.”

“We can multitask. Okay, letters. Go. What did they say?” I ask.

He says nothing.

“I’m waiting for the second episode of this limited series to drop,” I say.

He’s keeping me in suspense and I need answers.

“He started writing to Alex and me when we were in college.”

I swallow and start to choke a little. The noise wakes up Matilda, who tilts her head and looks at me with concern. I’m coughing from a particularly dry part of the sandwich—Beverly was light on the mayo—but also in disbelief from what I’m hearing. “Are you serious?” I ask.

“There was one letter where he talked about me growing up without him and that he was sorry.”

“Sorry for leaving?” I ask.

“I guess...” Wyatt says, holding back tears. He suddenly can’t continue. Saying this all out loud is too much for him.

“That’s pretty unbelievable,” I say. We both stare out into the vast stretch of highway before us. I want him to share more but Wyatt stays quiet for now and I follow his lead.

Boston to the suburbs of Chicago is a sixteen-hour trip but Wyatt wants us to drive straight through without stopping anywhere for the night. It’s a couple hours more than Saugatuck and he hadn’t built in a stopover for that trip.

As a driver, I tend to be distracted. Even when I’m behind the wheel, I need to read almost every sign we pass and I’ll usually have to comment on it.

“Cracker Barrel—next exit. Aren’t they racist or something?”

“Ain’t Paul’s Church. Someone scratched off the S!”

“Shinnicock? That can’t be a real town.”

Hey, it makes for great conversation starters.

I’ll often use my knees to steer while playing DJ, which I’m doing right now. Of course, this never sits well with Wyatt, who wants both hands at ten and two at all times.

“Can you just pick a song?” Wyatt asks as a maniac in a matte-black, souped-up Mustang with tinted windows cuts in front of us, causing me to lose control of the wheel for a second and swerve onto the shoulder.

Wyatt is more shaken than I am. I remain calm.

“I’ll do the music. You focus on the road,” Wyatt says, frazzled, reaching for my phone and scanning for songs.

“That was not my fault. Look at that guy!” I say as we watch the Mustang gun ahead, in and out of cars, doing the same thing to every other car on the road.

“What an asshole!” Wyatt says.

“I need snacks to calm my nerves,” I decide, seeing a billboard for a convenience store.

“Didn’t you just eat two sandwiches and chips?” Wyatt asks, eternally amazed at how much food I can consume.

“That was over two hours ago.”

Before Wyatt can object, I exit the highway in search of a store in the middle of nowhere. We’ve already crossed through Pennsylvania and into Ohio. It makes me hungry just thinking about how much driving we’re doing.

“What are you looking for?” Wyatt asks.

“There was a sign for a food store type thing.”

There’s nothing but empty road in front of us.

“Is this the right way?” Wyatt wonders, as we both see the sky darken ahead of us.

“I’m not sure now. We’ll find something.”

“I thought you saw a sign. You can’t just wing this right now,” Wyatt says.

“Every gas station on the planet has solid snacks. I just need like a protein bar or cashews or something. Don’t worry,” I say evenly.

Wyatt shakes his head and looks out the window as wind picks up.

A few minutes prior on the highway, the horizon had been an endless golden sunset. Now, spiking in the distance are a few lightning bolts. The skies turn almost blurry.

A storm is coming.

To top off the apocalyptic-aliens-landing feeling, this exit shows little sign of civilization.

“We need to put the top up,” Wyatt says, his eyes laser focused on the approaching storm.

We spot a sign far down the road and pull into the parking lot of an oily-looking independent mechanic shop that may or may not still be in business.

Beaten-up old cars and pickup trucks seem forever parked in the burnt-out grass in front. Matilda jolts up on all fours to see where we’re taking her now.

“This is every beginning to every horror movie,” Wyatt says.

We park and jump out of the car to pull the roof back up. We make a pretty good team when it’s needed.

Just as we slam our doors shut, the threshold of the storm reaches us, depositing a few raindrops onto our windshield, which quickly turns into a heavy downpour.

We laugh and rejoice, just having missed getting soaking wet. Matilda wags her tail and barks, wanting to join in on the random excitement.

“Snack time!”

“Are you kidding?” Wyatt says. “We need to get back on the highway if we want to make it to Chicago.”

“Just give me five minutes to find food,” I say.

Wyatt tenses up.

Our car races through the rain, onto some back road. I’m determined to scratch the itch of my sweet and salty cravings. Except for the ominous pounding of rain, we drive in silence.

Wyatt quietly fumes that things might not go according to plan.

Luckily, before Wyatt blows a gasket, I find the convenience store I was looking for called “Bucks Creek Deli and Groceries.”

“I’ll just run right in. You want anything?” I ask. Wyatt shakes his head, wanting to move on. Matilda lets out a sharp little bark, perhaps warning me not to go?

I fling myself out of the car, into the rain. Hurrying from the car to the store, now drenched, I think, Well, at least I’m getting in my steps.

Road trips can really screw with your exercise routine.

I have to remind myself we’re as far away from New York City as it gets when I enter and see the oddest assortment of items for sale: a clothing rack full of camouflage hunting vests, bow and arrows hanging on a wall and display cases devoted entirely to knives.

I quickly scan every rack but can’t find any snacks.

I approach the front counter where I find the world’s entire supply of cigarettes.

“Hello?” I call out, looking around. I peer back by the knives. Not a soul.

When I turn back around, I’m startled to find a grim-looking older couple (the owners maybe?) exiting the back room.

They eye me, suspicious.

The woman has fried, bleached-blonde hair and a generous amount of eyeliner. The man wears a Bass Pro Shops flannel button-down from fifty years ago and has a protruding Adam’s apple that’s strangely off-center.

Wyatt was right. This is the older couple in a horror movie who warns the naive tourist not to go in them there mountains.

I’m a little scared.

As I approach the counter, I arrange my face into an open, friendly way, looking around to see if there are any potential witnesses just in case this couple wants to lock the door and hunt me down.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” I joke as the rain slaps the store windows like a car wash. I instantly realize they’re not going to appreciate my humor.

They look at me like I’m an exotic zoo animal.

I glance down to make sure I’m not wearing my “I’m With Her” T-shirt. Luckily, I’m wearing a faded green hoodie. It’s from J. Crew but it could pass for Walmart.

“You wanna buy a knife?” the man asks.

“Me? Oh, no. Thank you. I’m all set for knives at the moment.”

“You were looking at ’em,” the woman says, almost in an accusatory way.

“Ah, I see.” I clock a video camera clipped to the cash register, staring directly at me. I suddenly feel guilty for no reason. Desperate to get out of there, I almost give up my need for something to munch on. But I can’t leave after dragging Wyatt here. “I’m looking for the snacks?”

“Snacks?” the man claps back.

“Like chips, pretzels, peanut MM’s. I’d settle for a Twizzler.” I do not want a Twizzler.

They stare at me blankly. “All we have are Millie’s donuts.” The man points to a dirty plastic container with three homemade donuts, each with red, white and blue frosting that look like they were made three Fourth of Julys ago. “They’re on sale.”

I let out a little confused laugh that I feel could maybe charm them.

It doesn’t.

Before I know it, I’m race-walking back to the car in the rain, carrying a small paper bag of the donuts. I glance over my shoulder just because.

Wyatt is now in the driver’s seat, ready to take over, so I climb into the passenger seat, shut the door and pound down the lock with my fist.

“Let’s get the hell outta here,” I say.

“Why? What was in there?” Wyatt asks, his gaze pointed at me.

“Knives. Go.”

Wyatt sees me stuff the bag in the glove compartment. “What’d you get?”

“Three stale patriotic donuts. Please just drive.”

Wyatt is amused and confused. We drive toward the highway as I explain the “deli and groceries” may have been an illegal front for weapons. I don’t know how Ohio laws work.

Unfortunately, my cravings will have to wait because there’s no way in hell I’m eating these donuts.

“I can’t find the highway heading east.” Wyatt panics, white-knuckling the steering wheel now that the heavy rain is pummeling us. The wind goes berserk, making Virginia Woolf sway back and forth on the road. It feels like we could tip over at any second.

The three of us freak out.

“I’m not getting a signal for GPS,” I say, refreshing my maps app.

“I think it’s the other way.” Wyatt slows down.

It’s a torrential downpour now and we can’t see one foot in front of us.

The windshield wipers are on high.

We brace as Wyatt flips on his turn signal and turns into a nearby parking lot. Without warning, when Wyatt accelerates on the turn, the car hydroplanes.

For a quick moment, it feels like a roller-coaster drop.

Wyatt’s eyes flash at me in terror.

Matilda stands up in her bed, her skinny legs wobbling to stay balanced.

Wyatt slams on the brakes and it feels like our minds disconnect from our bodies as the car spins around in circles twice, donuting in the middle of the road before careening into a nearby ditch.