Drive a Heart Around the Nation

Part 1

They could, theoretically, make the entire trip in exactly five days. But that wouldn't factor in gas or food stops, or necessary bodily functions. And anyway, why rush a trip you've been planning for five years? No, Jaila and Matty budgeted five weeks, and they'll use all of that they want to before life has to go on and take Matty with it.

Matty's always had a soft spot for acoustic guitar soloists. That's how the trip came to mind originally—he heard the entire itinerary in a song. He noted every state mentioned in a song he'd fallen in love with and hauled out an atlas from 1999 and drawn out their trip. He'd used a phi spiral to move out from their hometown in the least repetitive route he could find. What he ended up drawing something that looked an awful lot like a heart across the country. Jaila decided that was a coincidence. (Decided—not necessarily wanted.)

He wants to comb consignment shops and thrift stores for husks of guitars and a cello, because they're a part of the song; she insists the backseat and hatch of the 2002 Subaru they'll be driving should be filled with food coolers and bottled water and camping gear. She wins, mostly, but he finds a ukulele with a crack and is so excited by it, she can't say no to him displaying it in one of the back windows.

"We'll ditch it in Idaho," he says.

"Why Idaho?" she says, and realizes it's another line of lyric, and she probably just shouldn't question these weird quirks of his. She wants a summer with her best friend, and she'll indulge what isn't too crazy.

Matty's mechanic uncle swears the old car will make the trip, so long as they top off the oil every couple of states. There's only one reliably working windshield wiper, but it's over the driver's side, thank goodness. They'll have to rely mostly on rolled down windows to keep cool, because the AC drains the battery. Jaila watches them un- and rehook the battery so she can change it if she has to once they get into the desert, and eventually the Southern states they'll be skirting through on the way into Washington DC and can't avoid cranking the air any longer. Her grandmother makes them two dozen tamales she's certain won't last into South Dakota with Matty's appetite, and she hides her auntie's dulce de leche caramels in the glove compartment to surprise him with later. They fill a grocery bag with long-saved plastic cutlery sets with salt, pepper, and a napkin from takeout runs, single serve packets of mayo and chili sauce, and sachets of Jaila's favorite ginger tea. They're bringing along more processed junk than proper food for her taste, but Matty promises they'll stop at every advertised roadside fruit stand for whatever is seasonal in each and every state.

Their families, friends since Matty and Jaila met and became glued at the hip in elementary school, have a big farewell dinner for them the night before they set off. She overhears her grandmother mutter to her mother in Spanish that she bets they'll be married somewhere along the way, and it'll break her heart to not be at the wedding.

"It isn't like that, Abuela, not between me and him," she corrects, not quite low enough that Matty doesn't glance across the table and quirk his head at her strangely. Her abuela has always insisted that Matty is in love with her, even though Jaila knows better.

After dinner, they give kisses and hugs goodnight and goodbye—they're leaving at dawn, and there's no guarantee anyone else will be awake yet. Jaila's sure she won't sleep at all, and says as much to Matty.

"I knew I'd be doing most of the driving," he says with a wry smile and a couple of playful jabs at her rib cage.

"I'll do my share on days I've gotten a decent night's sleep the night before," she huffs at him.

"Like I said—I'll be doing most of the driving. Just don't sleep all the way through this trip. It's The Trip," he reminds her.

She has no intention of sleeping all the way through. She wants every second she can get with him.