A Blind Spot for Boys (25 page)

I
t took Mom a full ten minutes before her tears stopped rolling down her cheeks and she calmed down enough to say, “That was remarkable, truly remarkable. Beyond remarkable.” Mom being Mom gazed at me as proudly as if I had snagged a Pulitzer. My brothers, Mom’s best friends, the Paradise Pest Control employees, our neighbors—they bombarded me with a hundred compliments and a half-dozen requests for video valentines of their own. I noticed that the only people who remained silent were Dad’s siblings, who looked ashamed and uncomfortable, as if for once they saw the sacrifices he’d made.

Throughout the ensuing hubbub, my father didn’t say a word to me.

Not one.

Maybe I’d made the wrong choice. Maybe these images only magnified what would soon be his loss. Finally, Dad backed
away from the screen, held me close, and simply whispered, “Good work,” into my hair. When we drew apart, Dad smiled the same proud smile that had been the hallmark of every one of our photo safaris from the start. “Very good work.”

I blushed under his broad grin, which could hold up the earth, and Mom’s, which could give birth to any dream, the crazier, the better.

When Dad insisted on watching the slide show again, sitting close to the screen so that he wouldn’t miss a single pixel, no one protested.

“Well, well, well. I think dessert just arrived,” Ginny told me, eyes gleaming with mischief. I followed her gaze to the door, where I expected to see Reb but instead found Quattro bearing down on me in the kitchen, not with a dozen apology roses but with a pink pastry box. Just like that, my eyes teared up.

A few feet away, he said, “Bacon maple bar?”

“You’re here.”

“You invited us.”

I flushed, only now noticing Christopher and a young girl with the same up-tilted hazel eyes as his and Quattro’s. I flew over to give Christopher a hug, introduce myself to Kylie, and then finally sink into Quattro’s arms.

“Technically, I invited your dad,” I sniffled, my words muffled in his shoulder.

“Sooo,” said Ginny, scrutinizing Quattro when we finally pulled away from each other. She was literally eyeing him up and down. “You’re—”

Worried about what she would say, I cut in, “The one anthropologists should study. And the CIA. You don’t exist online.”

“But he’s here right now,” Ginny said smoothly, blinking at me expectantly for an introduction.

“Quattro,” he introduced himself.

“Oh, yes, you are,” Ginny said.

In spite of myself, my pulse quickened when Dad spied Quattro in the kitchen. I hadn’t realized how worried I was about his reaction to Quattro. While he didn’t throw his arms around Quattro, he didn’t frown either. Instead, he held out his hand in what must have been a man’s-man acceptance, then drew Christopher to the fridge for a cold beer and said, “So I hear we might be neighbors.”

Standing awkwardly in the corner, Kylie played with the edge of her slouchy gold sweater.

“That is so blog worthy,” I told her.

Her grin glowed brighter than the sweater. “You think so? I thought maybe I should have gone with brown wedges.”

My eyes dropped to her white jeans. “Not even. Those Japanese sneakers are inspired.”

“Winter meets spring,” she said shyly before ducking her head.

My mind whirled. Had I just possibly found a managing editor to take over
TurnStyle
? Before I could even broach it with
Kylie, Ginny asked if she wanted to check out my closet to get a sneak peek at what would be hot a year from now.

“Are you kidding?” Kylie squealed, and the two of them dashed upstairs.

That left me alone with Quattro in the kitchen. I placed my weight on one crutch and swiveled around to face him. “What are you doing here? I mean, really, why?”

“You’ve got a right to be annoyed at me.”

“Try hurt. And mad.” It went counter to every single snag-a-guy self-help book Ginny devoured on a regular basis, but I let my emotions loose: “Why didn’t you call me? I was worried about you. And weren’t you worried about me?”

“More than you know. We called Stesha almost every day.”

“You called her?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me.” He raised his hand, palm out. “I know. Lame. But I wasn’t sure if I had totally messed up with you. And anyway, I wanted to tell you in person.”

“What?”

“We were able to scatter Mom’s ashes over Machu Picchu after all.”

That revelation was a lightning bolt strike to the long three weeks of silence, a direct hit that burned my hurt clean. I forgot the pain of being ignored and let go of all my fretting that I had blown it with him by messing up his plans. A few of Dad’s employees spilled into the kitchen, so I grabbed my jacket hanging on a hook in the mudroom and led Quattro out to our tiny backyard patio.

“How?” I asked him as I leaned my crutches against the
bench before maneuvering to take a seat. I noticed that Quattro stood nearby until I was safely sitting.

“The helicopter pilot,” he said, dropping down next to me. “He totally got into it when I showed him Mom’s ashes and told him what we had wanted to do. He flew us right over Machu Picchu. A woman said a prayer in Spanish. And then the clouds parted and the sun came through.” His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “It was way better than what Dad and I had planned. You were right. There was a reason.” His voice dropped an octave. “I wish you had been there.”

“Me, too.” There, I’d said it. Words that revealed my true feelings. Words that were practically “I do” for a commitment-phobe, reformed pest control guru girl like me. Words that propelled Quattro to tug me close, his arms ringing around me. I didn’t protest.

His eyes were unwavering, as though he would never look away until I really heard him. “After my mom died, I started taking care of Kylie and making sure Dad ate. I paid the bills and went grocery shopping. And shopping for Kylie. And then you fell.”

“I thought you blamed me.”

“No! Myself for letting you get hurt. But I couldn’t deal with feeling responsible for one more person when I’d already messed up with Mom.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“I know, but I did. And I do. Sorry, I’m just wired that way.”

I bit my lip, the echo of every single one of my frothing declarations of independence to Reb and Ginny ringing in my
ears until it pealed with one truth: I liked feeling protected and cared for and nourished.

“After we were done with Mom’s ashes, I had this feeling up in the helicopter. I know, weird, but I just knew Mom wouldn’t want me to blame myself for the rest of my life.” He drew a cell phone from his jacket pocket, so brand-new the burnished silver glinted in the outdoor light.

“You got a phone?” I asked, stunned.

That action was practically “I do” for a guy who had been determined to remain a devout and devoted single on his way to college. “And in case you still said no, I brought this.” And now he placed a plastic bag in my hand. From it, I withdrew a napkin wrapped around the tiny SD card from my lost camera, more precious than any diamond.

“I forgot you had it,” I whispered.

“I didn’t.” He unfolded the napkin and said, “Look.”

From Voodoo Doughnut, the napkin had just one item written on it: “1. Inca Trail.”

Blinking back tears, I found myself staring blurrily through the kitchen window at the original napkin, my parents’ adventure manifesto of the fifty trips they wanted to take before they were fifty. For years, the napkin had presided over the kitchen table, but it was now framed in a shadow box that I had bought for my parents and commemorated in the video I’d created.

Quattro held the napkin, signposting this decisive moment that I didn’t need to photograph to remember. It would be etched in my mind forever.

Reach for this napkin and I’d be committing to end my
history of flirt-and-run. Holding hands at a movie, casting a sultry look over dinner at an Italian restaurant—that was easy. Holding each other through fear, standing at the other’s side through the worst bad news, that was tough. Maybe that’s why Mom’s romance novels only asked the will-they-or-won’t-they-get-together question. The much harder challenge is will they or won’t they
stay
together.

“What’s next?” he asked softly.

From what I’d seen on the Inca Trail, the difference between romance and relationship is the courage to meet every
What’s next? with one answer: Who knows… but I’ll be there with you.

Maybe it was finally time to dare a real relationship of my own.

So I closed the gap between us on the bench. And I lifted my face to his. And before his lips touched mine, I whispered, “Adventure number two. Us.”

O
f course, Mom insisted on showing the video appeal I’d made for donations to help Peruvians. That was just a notch less mortifying than her foisting my naked baby pictures on this captive audience. I wondered if Quattro had even seen the video, and if he had, whether he had noticed the message I had hidden in the credits. I could hardly stand still at the back of the living room, antsy up to the very end, when the production company name scrolled on-screen: GumWall Studio. The logo featured a neon-orange bicycle leaning against multicolored dots.

Quattro pulled me close and whispered in my ear. “Does my bike get a modeling fee, too?”

“You wish.”

“But seriously, maybe you should think about going into film.”

“Maybe,” I said. Why not be open to new ideas, which could lead to adventures I’d never imagined and possibilities I’d never considered? I was standing in the arms of one such adventure I’d never dreamed I’d have after my heart had shattered, and I had seriously doubted that a right guy could exist for me.

“I loved this the first time I saw it, but it’s even better the second time around,” Quattro said, his eyes serious.

“That’s because the second time around, you actually notice the details,” said Stesha, walking toward us with her arms wide open. “You’ll never guess who made the first donation.”

“Grace,” I said as she first enclosed me in an embrace, then Quattro.

“No, she was the second… along with her new honey.”

“She’s dating Henry?” I asked, grinning.

“Yes,” said Stesha. “Helen was the first.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Christopher’s head jerk up at the mention of Helen’s name, and I smiled.

“The wedding’s off,” Stesha said, popping one of Ginny’s miniature cookies into her mouth. “She’s donating the entire catering budget to the cause.”

“Whoa,” I said, and then admitted, “I’m glad they’re not getting married, but I feel a little bad for Hank.”

“This might be the wake-up call he needed,” Stesha said philosophically and shrugged. “We’ll see.” But now she nodded knowingly at me when everyone started promising to forward the link to the video to all their friends. That, as she said, is how a social revolution starts.

When everyone gathered around the dessert trays, Quattro
leaned over to me and said, “Which reminds me that you still owe me a modeling fee and a first date. You’re racking up quite the debts.”

“I still don’t pay modeling fees, but I might make an exception for you.” I smiled archly at him. “That is, if you’re up for a surprise.”

T
he morning after the party, I walked out to the front porch juggling two steaming mugs of coffee for my parents, who were chatting animatedly on the swing bench.

“What are you two plotting now?” I asked, handing them their Americanos, extra-hot the way they liked them.

Dad sipped the coffee with an appreciative groan. “It’s time to retire the Fifty by Fifty.”

“What? You can’t!” I protested, ready to cheer Dad on in his own personal pep rally: Just because he was going blind didn’t mean that he had to stop adventuring. Heck, as I had researched, there are plenty of blind adventurers. Look at Eric Weihenmayer, who summited Everest… blind! Not to mention blind archers. Archers! And blind artists, musicians, authors, and athletes.

Before I could slide behind my pulpit of peppiness, Mom said, “Who wants to cap it at fifty? We’re voting for
daily
adventure.”

Plan B, they told me, called for both of them cutting back the workweek to four days so they could hike together on Thursdays three seasons a year, and switch to snowshoeing in the winter. But they could only do this if Dad picked up vocational therapy to start adapting to his loss of vision.

“It’s time to look this straight in the eye,” Dad said, then shrugged with a wry expression that was wiped clean of any morbidity. “So to speak. I just need to figure out how to adapt.”

“You will,” I said.

“I will,” he agreed confidently.

Mom added, “After seeing the video, we couldn’t help but wonder if maybe you should apply to USC or NYU, too. Their film schools.”

“But… aren’t you going to need my help?”

“We’re going to have to figure it out,” Mom said.

“As much as we love you,” Dad said, lifting his mug in a toast to me, “we don’t want you living at home forever.”

“We want you to have your own life,” Mom said firmly.

One last protest bubbled up, but I stopped the words when it occurred to me that while my parents might welcome my help, they didn’t
need
my help. This was no different from what I’d learned from Grace on the Inca Trail. Grace with her one leg, who tirelessly, relentlessly pursued the adventure she wanted. When she needed me, she’d ask. Otherwise, she wanted me to
enjoy myself. And most of all, she wanted to enjoy herself, and that meant not feeling like a burden to anyone.

“Okay, I’ll think about those schools, too,” I told them, and basked in their blessing.

Before I left to pick up Quattro at his dad’s downtown condo, I made one final pit stop with a gift for my parents: a fresh napkin, a blank canvas for their new dreams.

“So where are we going, you with that smug smile?” Quattro asked as he settled into the passenger seat.

“Smug? Who’s smug?” I demanded, even though I knew perfectly well that I was exuding self-satisfaction that purified into sweet satisfaction after he leaned over the parking brake to kiss me. One strong hand cradled the back of my head, the other cupped my cheek. Cherished and respected, that’s how I felt with Quattro, and my body must have let him know it, too, because when he pulled back from our kiss, let’s talk about smug. His grin was all he-man glory. And I told him so.

“Yeah, well, when you’ve got it, you’ve got it,” he said lazily. “So where are we headed?”

“A photo safari.” I pulled onto the road. “My favorite spot in the city.”

“The Gum Wall?”

“Nah, I’m on to the next thing.”

“So where?”

“You’ll see.”

Behind the corporate headquarters of Starbucks is a building that’s been set aside for young graffiti artists. With full permission from the owner to paint whatever they want, whenever they want, artists have turned the wall into an intriguing, ever-changing collage. Last time I dropped by the Graffiti Wall, I shot a portrait of Ginny under a painting of an enormous chocolate-brown-and-pink cupcake. The cupcake had long since disappeared under new images of a stack of books, a red skull, and a girl surfing a rainbow. And now, topping it all, was a very round, very pink doughnut.

“See? Stesha would say that we were meant to be here,” I told Quattro before directing him to stand between the doughnut and a stylized word: “Dazzle.” A better word would have been
sine qua non
, and that just might need to be remedied soon. “How are you with spray paint?”

“Now?”

“Later. We got time.” I grinned. “So let’s see what you got.”

“What I got?”

I demonstrated—wiggled my hips, shimmied my shoulders, and struck the sultriest of sultry poses. “Voilà.”

“You’re killing me.”

I snapped back into photographer mode. “So, Model Boy, your turn.”

“Later. We got time.” Quattro pulled me close and kissed me, long and scorching hot, oh, my. In the privacy of my own mind, I yelled silently to Grace’s Wednesday Walkers:
Girls! Are
you listening? Sexy. To. The. End.
Somehow, I managed to dredge up enough rational thought to step away from Quattro.

“Nope, time to work for your modeling fee.” I held my cell phone up. There is a reason why people say creativity gets exercised when it works within tight constraints. Since I couldn’t afford a new camera yet, I’d been playing with my old cell phone. What I found was that I loved this medium and had a couple of ideas that I wanted to experiment with today.

Five minutes, count them, that’s all it took before I felt certain that I was about to get the perfect shot. The wind picked up, blowing Quattro’s hair back. He looked straight at me, all focused intent, as if he were setting off to explore the last bit of uncharted rain forest left in the world. There was challenge in that expression and an undeniable hint of swagger.

“Done,” I said, pocketing the cell phone.

“Already?”

“On to the next place.”

“Gum Wall, Graffiti Wall. I can hardly wait.”

“Oddfellows,” I said.

He laughed as he followed me to the car. “Of course. Will your extraction crew be there?”

I reddened. “We don’t need one.”

One eyebrow lifted as his eyes twinkled. “You sure about that?”

“Well,” I drawled. “You might need to convince me.”

So he did, with another pulse-surging kiss. On the way to Capitol Hill, I told Quattro about my parents urging me to apply to USC and NYU, and he listened intently even as it spelled
potential years apart from each other, one of the reasons I hesitated in seriously thinking about them. But he nodded and said firmly, “You’ve got to apply.”

“I know, but…”

“Shana, it’s over a year away. Who knows what could happen between now and then?”

“Are you saying we might break up?”

“Or maybe something better might happen—and we both end up in Oslo or at a fairy circle in Scotland.”

“You’re right,” I said, laughing. “You’re absolutely right.”

Maybe that’s just it. Maybe all we can do is grab hold of life as it unspools before us. I cast a glance over my shoulder to check my blind spot: all clear. With a quick grin at Quattro, I merged into the fast-moving traffic on the highway and headed for whatever adventure the next moment held for me, for him, for us.