“Yeah,” he says. “Technically, I could.” The gears are turning. He might actually be considering it. I wait for the fear to hit, but it doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his arms around me and I can still breathe all the way in and all the way out. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I learned not to travel with people. I know better. But this is different. It’s Justin. He’s the first person I met after I left Ithaca. I’ve known him for a long time. I run my finger along his forearm from one freckle to the next, like I’m connecting stars.

Over hash browns and coffee at a diner on State Street, we start plotting. We’ll go south until it gets warm enough to swim in the ocean. He has a ton of mixtapes. I’ll pay for gas. He’ll pay for rooms. He has his dad’s credit card. For emergencies. “This is an emergency,” he says, halfway between funny and earnest. “It’s my junior year, and I’ve never even gone anywhere good for spring break. At some point I have to live my life, you know?”

I nod, willing my mind to ignore how far apart we are. I need a break from myself, and this is the closest I’ll get to taking one. We pick up my car from the parking lot at Arnie’s without stopping in to say hi. I think we both know our getaway plan will fade fast if we lose momentum.

Back at Justin’s, he throws things in a duffle bag, quickly, like the house will burn to ashes around us if we don’t get out.

And then, we’re gone.

— Chapter 36 —

Justin has terrible taste in music. I’m almost offended he likes my songs so much. The broken tape deck in my car wasn’t even a problem for him, because he brought his boom box, so we could listen to his ten thousand mixtapes that are a jumble of songs by the same five shitty college radio bands in slightly different order. He can’t read a map. He won’t pee on the side of the road, and he’s an endless pit of hunger. He’s the opposite of practical.

Here’s what Justin gets at our first gas station stop: pork rinds, a jumbo bag of pizza-flavored Combos, two giant slushies (blue and red, because why should we have to choose), couple Cokes for later, Fruit Stripe gum, and a Zagnut bar with a wrapper that’s sun-faded and dusty, because he’s never seen one before. He swears he’s not going to eat it. It’s just because the word Zagnut is funny.

Here’s what I get: thirteen gallons of gas.