“It was,” Rodney said, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “A good life. The best life.”
Well, no. It wasn’t, it couldn’t be. But if Rodney needed that white lie to push himself forward, Don wasn’t going to take it from him. Not now. Not yet.
“It was, wasn’t it,” Don said. “Even with everything.”
“Even with everything,” Rodney agreed.
When they’d bought the house, the flower beds had been mostly barren aside from a few scraggly hedges that hadn’t been trimmed in who knew how long. Don’d spent years getting it right.
First, he rebuilt the flower beds on his own. Dug out all the dirt, the plastic sheeting, the miles and miles of roots. Brought in fresh, nutrient-rich soil. Planted flowers in every color he could think of. Out in the back, he’d sectioned off an area along the fence to the right. Tore up that part of the yard. Put in small trees and strawberries and blueberries and carrots and vines that grew and grew and grew until they crawled up the fence.
Rodney helped, sometimes, but Don loved doing it on his own. It washisthing, something he hadn’t been very good at to start, but had learned along the way. It took time, Don said, gardening did. Patience. A willingness to be wrong and have to start all over again.
Plants were, in his estimation, as finicky as people could be, and just as dramatic. Prune a plant the wrong way, and it’d die just to prove a point.
“What will you miss?” he asked his husband.
Rodney’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “Mornings,” he finally said. “When it’s cool outside. Dew on the grass, lookinglike diamonds when the morning sunlight shines upon them. A low fog that’ll burn off by nine. It’s quiet, then. So very quiet. People don’t appreciate mornings, and for good reason. We have to get up to go to school. To work. To meetings and appointments. I spent my whole life not seeing what a morning looks like. After retirement, it was like I was seeing it again for the first time.” He paused. Then, “It’s going to hurt.”
Don closed his eyes. “I know. But we made a promise to ourselves. To be there for him. And besides, how much more can it hurt? We’ve already been through the worst. In all honesty, it…” He paused, then forced himself through the rest. “I think we need to go and say what needs to be said. Both of us.”
Rodney didn’t respond. A moment later, the RV grumbled to life, and they left their home behind for the last time.
CHAPTER 2
They headed west, chasing after the setting sun. Avoid major highways, avoid major cities. Might as well avoid Johnny Law as best they could. They had enough food to last them until the end. Extra gas in plastic containers. Flashlights, blankets, a basin to wash clothes in if they couldn’t find a laundromat. A small generator should it be needed. Don tried eating one of the muffins, but he couldn’t choke it down.
By the time they were on the road—their home shrinking behind them—Don was dry-eyed and clearheaded. The reality of their situation was not lost on him. But he wasn’t alone. Everyone in the world was going through something similar. For perhaps the first time in history, the entirety of civilization knew the same thing: It was only a matter of time.
They left the safety of Camden, Maine, for the unknown world beyond. They passed children playing in yards, mothers holding babies as they played in sprinklers. A sign in front of one house readREPENT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!The smell of Atlantic salt water was thick as ever.
The roads were packed. People with the same idea, to get away, away. As if any distance would matter. But Rodney was a Mainenative. He knew the back roads, the secret paths that wound through the trees. Others did too, but not so many.
They didn’t speak much, at least not at first, both lost in their own little worlds. Rodney had his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, hunched forward slightly and squinting as if his glasses weren’t sitting on the dashboard in front of him.
Don, though, Don was in his head. Don was thinking about the first time they’d met. Don was thinking about the way Rodney had appeared, as if by magic. At a coffee shop, packed with people. Don had only found a table after watching like a hawk. He’d waited until the people sitting at one had finished, stood up, and then swooped in to claim it for himself.
Breakfast tea with sugar and a dollop of milk. A flaky croissant that melted on his tongue. An open book with thousands of words left to read.
And then Rodney had been there, standing above the table, coffee in hand. He said, “Mind if I sit here? No other spots.”
Though irritated, Don said, “Fine, fine,” as he made room. Rodney—though Don did not know his name yet—nodded and sat.
The conversation that arose due to proximity was forced at first, awkward pleasantries coming in fits and starts. But it smoothed out after a time, and Don was strangely enchanted by this man. Rodney, he was called. Rodney with his slate-colored eyes, and the devastating way he could arch his eyebrow. Don didn’t think he’d ever laughed as much before then, and by the time they were finished, Don thought he’d met someone worth knowing.
It took them almost two weeks to see each other again. This time, for dinner, one where they were so caught up in conversation that they didn’t see the restaurant closing down around them. They kissed once that night, a bare scrape of lips, hidden in the shadows of the parking lot. Three days later, Rodney had spent the night. That was forty years ago. He’d never left.
Don looked over at him now and said, “I think about you all the time.”
Rodney grunted. “I’m right here.”
“I know. But still.”
Rodney stared straight ahead. “What should we say?” He coughed, clearing his throat. “When we get there. To him.”
“Everything,” Don said, though he was careful about it. Dangerous ground, this. “We hold nothing back.”
“Right,” Rodney said gruffly.