Two-way Street

Day One, 12:36 p.m.

I’m heading toward the bathroom to see what’s taking Courtney so long when I see her lean over and throw up all over the floor. It’s pretty nasty, a bunch of brown chunks and green liquid. I knew that sausage calzone didn’t look right.

“Court,” I say, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?”

She looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot, and then leans over and heaves again. I take her cell phone out of her hand, hang up on whoever it is she was talking to without bothering to say anything, and lead Courtney past the line of waiting women (who are all staring—have they never seen anyone upchuck before?) and into the women’s bathroom.

“Jordan,” she says, leaning against my shoulder. “You can’t come into the girls’ bathroom.”

Four women at the sink are gaping at me openly. “It’s okay,” I say to them. “I’m just helping my friend. She’s not feeling so well.”

“We’re not friends,” Courtney says, and then throws up again into one of the sinks against the wall. It’s not the best move, saying the guy who’s taking care of you isn’t your friend, but I let it slide since she’s obviously in distress. I pull her hair back from her face.

“Do you have a hair tie?” I ask her, ignoring the stares of the woman at the sinks. What is their problem? Do they not see that she’s sick? You’d think they’d be rallying around me, excited I was so obviously concerned that I would risk a trip into the women’s bathroom. Maybe it’s a new kind of crime, guys pretending they’re friends with random girls who get sick at rest stops, so that they can sneak into women’s bathrooms and get a peek at…I look around. At middle-aged women washing their hands.

Courtney hands me her bag, and I riffle through it, looking for a hair tie. Makeup, notebook, mirror…why do girls need so much stuff? I pull Courtney’s hair back from her face, trying to gather it in a ponytail. Her skin feels smooth against my hands.

“Let me do it,” Courtney says, taking the hair tie away from me. Her fingers brush against mine, and my heart rate speeds up again. God, I want her so bad.

She pulls her hair back, then leans over the sink again and gives one final, silent heave. I rub her back until her body stops shaking.

“You okay?” I say.

“Yeah,” she says. She’s gripping the sides of the sink so hard that her knuckles are turning white. “I’m okay. I just hate throwing up.”

“Will you be okay in here for a second by yourself? I’ll go get you a bottle of water.”

“Okay,” she says, not really sounding like she means it. I look around the bathroom. The floors are dirty and there are random paper towels and toilet paper strewn around the floor. It smells like exactly what you’d think a thruway rest stop bathroom would smell like.

“Actually,” I say. “Why don’t you just come with me? We’ll get you some water, and then you can sit in the back of my truck. Some air might make you feel better.”

“Okay,” she agrees, and starts walking shakily toward the door of the restroom. I go to put my arm around her like before, but she shrugs me off. “I’m fine.”

Ten minutes later, she’s sitting with her feet hanging over the side of my open truck back, sipping water slowly, and looking a little bit better, although really pale.

“I should call Jocelyn back,” she says. “I was talking to her when I started throwing up.”

I feel relieved that she wasn’t talking to Lloyd, which is completely ridiculous. Courtney and I are over, and no matter how much I still want to be with her, it’s not going to happen. And she deserves someone who’s going to make her happy. If Lloyd does that for her, I really am cool with it.

My phone starts ringing in my pocket, and I check the caller ID. Courtney’s dad. The fucker will not leave me alone. Every five minutes with him.

“I’m gonna take this,” I tell Court. “Are you going to be okay for a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll call Jocelyn back so she doesn’t worry.”

I walk safely out of Courtney’s earshot, and then open my phone. “What?” I say. He may have gotten me to break up with Courtney, but as far as I’m concerned, the power he has over me stops there. Well, that’s not exactly true. Because he keeps calling me.

“That’s not a nice way to answer the phone, Jordan,” he says, sounding cheerful.

“Yeah, well, I’m not in exactly the nicest mood right now,” I say.

“Oh, and why’s that?” he asks, sounding amused.

“Because you keep calling me.”

“I just wanted to make sure everything was going okay,” he says. “That the trip was proceeding safely.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I say, not mentioning the fact that Courtney just spent ten minutes throwing up into a sink.

“Jordan, you know I’m not trying to be a dick about this,” he says, sighing.

“Yeah, spare me,” I say, watching Courtney from where I’m standing. She looks really small and really pale.

“I’m not,” Mr. Brewster says. “I just want Courtney to be happy, and I really think this is the best way to go about it. And Jordan, I think you know that telling Courtney what happened really isn’t going to serve any real purpose.”

Other than to make her hate me, I think to myself. And it’s true. If I told Courtney what I knew, she would hate me even more than she does now. And having her hate me because she thinks I dumped her for another girl is much better than having her hate me because of what I know.

“Well, you don’t have to worry,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m not going to say anything.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Brewster says. “I really do appreciate it, Jordan. And I am going to tell Courtney. But on my own time.”

“Whatever,” I say. I snap my phone shut and take a deep breath. After a few seconds, I turn back around and head back to the truck. I cannot wait until this trip is over.