Page 53 of A Summer to Save Us

I put on my helmet, sit behind him, and wrap my arms around his waist. I want to pull out my phone right away and check the latest news, but I don’t have reception here.

And even if I did, I probably wouldn’t do it.

There’s something inside me, an inkling that something completely different might be true.

Something so unimaginable I never really thought seriously about it.

What if he’s Asher Blackwell?

It’s getting dark as we ride the Yamaha along the Las Vegas Strip.

It’s still oppressively hot, as if the city is storing the heat of the day like a bell.

Exhausted, I cling to River. The city is overwhelming.

Hectic colorful lights flicker everywhere so that I can’t clear my head.

Countless people blur into a parade of indistinct faces, laughter, and flowing garments.

Drag queens, street artists on stilts, and showgirls line the fronts of glittering hotels, and every now and then, a drunk or a stoned junkie lies on the side of the road.

Surreal. Bizarre. This is all a gigantic illusion.

The idea of River being Asher Blackwell fits that vibe.

It’s too bright, too crazy, too loud. Several times, I simply close my eyes to block out the world in order to think, but inside me, the same restlessness flickers. It just can’t be.

Since we don’t have a reservation and the well-known hotels on the Strip are, naturally, booked, River gives up after the fourth one and turns onto a quieter side street to continue looking.

Now I’m absolutely convinced he’s wanted, and the clock in my head counting down our hours is ticking louder and louder. Were those groupies at the gas station? And if so, why doesn’t he want to tell me? I have to calm down so I don’t go completely crazy.

After exploring the smaller, lesser-known hotels, River—of course, always wearing sunglasses and a bandana, we finally move onto a hotel away from the Strip that doesn’t inspire confidence.

From the outside, the building looks in danger of collapsing.

The walls inside appear to be made of plywood panels, and the fire escape, I realize after looking from the first floor, could have been an old prop.

I look at the furniture with a bad feeling in my stomach. The simple double bed might, at least, have clean bedding, and there’s a sagging sofa and a low coffee table. No vases, pictures, or other decorative stuff. Which is good, just in case River has to break something again. Like a star!

Currently, he seems composed—too composed for my taste. We both know his secret is about to be exposed, but he just ignores it. Sure, he’s a master at that. After all, he ignored my silence.

After rummaging through the backpack for a while, he lies down on the bed and folds his arms behind his head.

I raise my eyebrows. Say something already!

But he just stares at the ceiling, his brow furrowed as if he was thinking hard.

I have to check in with Dad , I type, holding the phone close to his face so he can’t avoid it.

He takes the cell phone from me. Okay, let’s go to the lobby, I saw a computer. Then you can leave airplane mode on , he writes in reply.

In the lobby, he falls casually into a worn wing chair next to the computer as I sit at the ancient guest computer and log into WhatsApp.

I text Dad briefly that everything is okay without looking at his messages. Just as I’m about to log off, a message from Mr. Spock pops up.

Stardate: Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. This far and no further! No more half-measures. Maybe I should just call it quits!!!

I stare at the words for seconds, and my heart beats faster.

I glance at River, who coolly sits in the chair, not taking his eyes off me.

He probably wants to make sure I’m just writing my message and not surfing the Internet.

Damn! Given the current situation, I can’t possibly ask him if I can tell anyone where we are.

But equally, I can’t let Mr. Spock down.

He was the only one who was there for me last year.

Calling it quits won’t solve your problem!

!! Your mom needs you! I’m in Vegas. I glance at River, who is sitting far enough away to be unable to read the words, then type the name of the hotel, feeling like a traitor to River.

What am I thinking? What if Mr. Spock shows up? How will I explain it?

When we get back to our room, River fumbles with my cell phone, which he had plugged in earlier.

When I look at him in surprise, he says, “I’m turning it off, to be safe.

” He places it on the dresser next to the door, then falls back onto the bed, staring intently at the ceiling.

When he continues to ignore me, I go into the bathroom, close the door, and lean on the sink.

I hope he actually turned off the phone and isn’t looking at my personal messages because then he would see what I wrote Mr. Spock.

No idea if he ever saw me type in my password, though.

On the other hand, it’s definitely too risky for him because of the tracking.

After all, we want to stay here for one night, at least.

I take a deep breath and try to sort through the many thoughts in my head.

Hopefully, Mr. Spock won’t mess up. Sometimes you write or say things you don’t mean.

But just in case he meant it, now he knows where to find me.

I just don’t know how to explain it to River.

Then again, he should understand best, since he truly wanted to save me.

And luckily, I still have a bit of time.

If Mr. Spock actually comes, it will probably take him more than twelve hours from Oklahoma City—if he’s really from Oklahoma City.

Exhausted, I wipe my face and stare at the girl in the mirror.

“Hey,” I whisper to her. The girl looks back shyly, as if I were a stranger but someone she seems to trust. “What do you think? Is River Asher Blackwell?” The words sound hoarse, but I don’t stutter because I’m alone.

She just looks back in fear, and I feel my heart beat faster. Saying it makes it more real and puts it, as crazy as it sounds, into the realm of possibility. I clench my hands. It can’t be true!

He said he loves me. Damn it!

And that’s exactly the fact that speaks against it. Why the hell would Asher Blackwell fall in love with Kansas Montgomery? That would be... bizarre?

“I’m going to get something to eat, Tucky. Can you manage for that long?” River calls from outside at that moment. “If so, knock on the door three times.”

I knock on the wood three times. Since when does he call me Tucky?

“Okay. And make sure you don’t sneeze, or the walls here will collapse like a house of cards.”

He jokes, as he always does when something is wrong. I know him better than he thinks—and yet not at all.

I hear the door close as I continue to stare at myself in the mirror.

The silence that remains seems unbearably loud.

It hums in my ears. Maybe it’s the air conditioning.

At least, that’s what I’ve learned on our road trip through America.

Almost every flophouse has rattling air conditioning and a smoke detector that doesn’t work properly.

Thankfully, none of them went off when there was cigarette smoke.

I step into the shower and scrub the heat of the day along with the desert dust from my skin.

As the water hits the top of my head, I try to wash away my fears, but it no longer works. The girl with the red lollipop keeps appearing in front of my eyes, as well as the boys in the background. Fans? Friends?

After I’ve rubbed myself dry to the point of it being painful, I slip into my old jeans, which still have the signal generator attached. I wrap my hand around it for a moment, remembering the feeling of happiness when River gave it to me.

Since you can’t protect yourself, someone else has to do it for you. Especially when I’m... sleeping . He left something out.

I wish I could go back in time and start the journey all over again. I wish I could forget what happened at the gas station.

After a while, I let go of the signal generator and put on the sweaty bat blouse. My outfit is definitely not the best choice to wear to my mom’s.

Mom . The opening of the art exhibit is tonight at Caesars Palace, and the way I feel about her couldn’t be more strange. Funny. I always wanted to ask her why she just disappeared. There was a gap in my heart the size of a fist, but that gap closed this summer.

What could Mom say in reply? It was all a big misunderstanding, darling?

Thoughtfully, I open the backpack and take out the photo that I have stored in a zippered pocket. Next to it, I place the first newspaper I’ve been carrying around with me for weeks, as if it were a shrine.

I stare at the photo. Her smile is full of warmth, and she doesn’t look much older than me. She wasn’t much older when she left, just in her mid-twenties.

She looks so much like me, it’s scary. “Mom,” I whisper. “Why?”

“Why” was the first word I uttered in over a year, and it’s the word that has stuck with me for years. It’s such a tiny word but holds so much.

Why did Chester torture me so much?

Why didn’t anyone ever believe me?

Why doesn’t River just tell me who he is?

What do I actually expect from Mom’s answer? What explanation would be enough to truly satisfy me?

I was terminally ill and didn’t want you to see me suffer?

I heard voices and was afraid I’d kill you in your sleep?

Of course, it wasn’t like that—I know that much.

I was selfish and wanted to live my own life .

I carefully leaf through the crumpled newspaper for the article inside.

I don’t think there’s an answer to the “why” that will make me happy or tell me I’m still lovable enough. Still, I should ask her, because it was important to Kansas, who put it on the list at the beginning of the summer. I shouldn’t just ignore her wishes.

I pause in the middle of turning the pages, even though I see Mom’s picture on the next page.

Meredith Fox – A Portrait of an Unusual Artist

And below it:

The Power of Masks. Art Exhibition by Painter Meredith Fox in the Forum at Caesars Palace

However, just like that night in the tent, something irritated me as I leaf through the newspaper. Now that it’s light out, part of my consciousness has noticed. I flip back and spot it—the huge headline in the middle section literally jumps out at me.

Ben Adams: Robin Hood, David Copperfield, or John Doe? Who is the man who escaped everyone?

However, it’s not the headline that makes my mouth dry; it’s the hole in the middle of the newspaper. I notice the text appears to be complete, and I quickly scan the section transitions. There must have been a photo of him there.

And now it’s missing.