It Starts With Him

26

I gawk down at the paper, squinting so hard I can barely see. Is my mind playing a prank on me? Is this some sick joke that I fail to see the humor in? How have I not seen this before?

Questions race completely overcome my mind like a tidal wave as I stare down at the coordinates, trying to make sense of them. I had always seen the fold of the corner, but of course, I never thought to undo it. What could this mean?

Before I even have the chance to convince myself otherwise, I immediately shower, the hot water streaming down my skin. Wherever these coordinates lead me, it's probably best to be somewhat prepared. My scalp basically burns in gratitude as I scrub in shampoo and conditioner both at once.

This isn't the time for being meticulous. After surely less than three minutes, I'm out of the scorching stream of water and clumsily pulling on jeans and an old Rolling Stone band tee shirt. I towel dry my hair in the quickest way possible and throw it up with a claw hair clip, hastily pulling out a few strands to frame my face.

Without a second thought, I grab the paper, my phone, and head towards my door. I pause though when I realize I'm going to need a good excuse for this. I've been basically dead for two weeks, and all of a sudden I'm fresh and ready to go out?

I glance around my room, and my eyes fall on the songbook peeking out of the drawer on my bedside table. I snatch it, and a pen, discreetly tucking the paper into its pages. My legs start to move before I'm even finished, and I dash down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time.

Dad must hear my descending footsteps, because before I'm even in sight, he says, "Dev, we've decided to stay. But only if you think you'll be okay for the next few-"

I walk into the kitchen and meet eyes with him. He looks me up and down, confusion blossoming across his face like a flower bed in spring.

"Are you... going somewhere?" His tone sounds like he just got told great-grandma has risen from the dead. I put on a smile as best I can, but it feels foreign to my lips. I nod feverishly, snatching the keys off the counter.

"If that's okay with you?" I say, holding up my songbook. His eyes flit from my face to the book, back and forth for what seems like hours. My toe starts hastily tapping the ground as I anxiously await his response. If I don't figure out these coordinates soon, I'm going to lose my mind more than I already have.

"Well... Alright. Drive safe please." He says it like a question. I rush up to him, planting a peck on his cheek, before sprinting outside, past the porch, and into the driver's seat of the truck. I start the ignition quicker than I ever have before and take a few deep breaths. I need to drive safely, at least. The coordinates won't mean anything if I die trying to get there. I pull the paper from my songbook and then lay the book and its corresponding pen on the passenger seat. Carefully unraveling the corner, I pull GPS up on my phone, fingers more than ready to type. With care, I type in the combination of letters and numbers, and then hit "GO". A painfully large knot in my stomach twists around itself as I wait impatiently for it to load.

The GPS doesn't read the name of anywhere at all. In fact, the blue dot that symbolizes the destination seems to be in the middle of nowhere. All it tells me is that it's about an hour and a half south from here. With an irritable sigh, I pull out of the driveway and start my journey southbound.

Why would mom leave coordinates on her summer list? I doubt she thought anyone would ever see it, so what was the point of it?

I lean my head against the cold car window, one hand gripped on the steering wheel while the other rests comfortably in my lap. My eyes flit back and forth from the GPS to the road ahead, and I sit in the silence, wondering where the hell mom's taking me.

. . .

Georgetown. That's where.

After roughly 70 minutes of driving, I had passed the "Welcome to Georgetown" sign and now have been driving through the crowded downtown area, following the strange route.

The rainbow of colors erupting from the buildings astounds me as I nearly rear-end someone from not paying attention. The beauty and age of this town are beautiful. The sky is radiant like a glimmering sapphire with only a few puffy clouds painted along its smooth, azure canvas. The sun, close to setting, leaves a vibrant streak of orange on the horizon as if put there with a paintbrush.

I can see why mom would want to come here. But the thing is, I'm still 20 minutes from the destination, and the blue dot is nowhere near this personality-filled town. On the GPS, the town is filled with squares to symbolize buildings and tiny words that label businesses. However, the GPS route leads me west out of town where those words and squares no longer reside. Why would mom want to go in the middle of nowhere instead of a charming, historical town like this one?

The rest of the drive is silent. I turn off the radio and crack the window for some fresh air, the breeze feeling welcoming against my flushed skin.

Soon, the GPS beeps at me, signaling my arrival. Staring up in awe at what must be the point mom wrote down, sends shockwaves through my bones. Like I guessed, my truck and I are sitting in the middle of basically nowhere. There are a few small houses about half a mile down the road, but we're too far from the town to hear the bustling of cars, or laughter of children. The only sound is the rush of the wind in my ears and the distant dance of the sea.

In front of me, though, is where the GPS truly points. It's a hill, but not just a small uplift in the land. It's a massive, grassy, rolling hill that's so tall I can barely see the top from where I sit.

A hill, mom? Really?

I turn off my truck and step outside, staring up at the mountain of grass in front of me. What on earth could be on top of this hill, so important that mom felt the need to write it down? I take a deep breath and pull my hair into a ponytail, and start towards it.