Page 28 of Ex Marks the Spot

In a fit of frustration, I’d shouted, “Bridges aren’t supposed to move!”

Moe, some sort of engineer with an inability to read the room, had piped in with, “Actually, bridges are designed to shift to some extent,” before I cut him off with a glare and my assurance that his mansplaining was unnecessary.

Once they’d left, I told Court that because he was so good at making decisions for me, he could choose whether to go through the park on his own—and subsequently earn us a time penalty for breaking the rules—or study the map with me to strategize a route that would (hopefully) save us time and (more importantly) reduce the number of bridges we’d need to cross. His poor, lonely brain cells finally showed some intelligence, and he went with option B.

Based on past seasons of Xtreme Quest, I knew the clue wouldn’t be at the first or last bridge. My guess was the Heart of Palm Bridge in the back of the park, which we could get to by backtracking and crossing the Guan Bridge. And by crossing, I mean sliding my feet in a weird ski-shuffle while gripping the sides like my life depended on it even though the bridges were only forty-six feet and twenty-six feet up, respectively. America will probably make fun of me when this episode airs, but I was right and that’s all that matters.

I may have gloated all the way to the helipad.

That’s right. A helipad. Because the clue dangling from the side of the death bridge told us to take a helicopter to Sarchí, an artsy town northwest of San Jose.

I spent the first part of the flight trying to memorize the landscape so I can paint it when I go home. Then I started thinking about my parents. My mom swore she had everything covered and told me I wasn’t allowed to worry or feel guilty while I was gone. I promised I wouldn’t, but despite three years of therapy, I still have moments where my inner voice tells me I’m the reason my parents almost died.

As soon as the wheels meet the runway, I take my phone out of airplane mode and text my mom.

Landed. I’ll meet you in baggage claim.

My original plan of driving home for a short break before returning to campus to work at the gallery changed to me selling my car (and most of mypossessions) and flying home for the summer before moving to Italy for my internship. Marchella, my coordinator, arranged for me to arrive two weeks before the program starts to acclimate and sightsee. I was not upset about that.

I’m hoping I’ll be able to get up to Germany to visit my brother, John, too. His wife was just put on bedrest for placenta previa, and it’s been almost a year since I’ve seen my four-year-old niece.

“Thank you again, dear. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“You’re very welcome.” I give my seat neighbor a quick hug before she steps into the aisle and makes her way off the plane.

The first thing she’d said to me when she’d sat down was, “I hate it when people tell me to smile. What makes them think it’s a good idea to say something as stupid as that?” Except she’d said it loud enough for the man in front of her to hear it as he continued down the aisle toward his seat.

Maybe he’ll take her advice and keep his comments to himself the next time he comes across a twenty-two-year-old whose heart has been put through the wringer. Sure, I’m excited about Italy, but I’m also nervous, scared, and preemptively homesick. And to top it all off, I can’t stop thinking or dreaming about Court. So sue me for not smiling, 24A.

“I don’t know why either, but I hate it too,” I’d replied to the woman.

To my surprise, she’d lifted her fist and bumped it against mine. “That’s how you kids do it, right?”

I’d laughed, and rather than pulling out the book I’d brought and curling up against the window, I sat back and started up one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with a stranger. Eloise was returning from visiting her four great-grandchildren in Knoxville, her first trip there since losing her husband of fifty-three years. I was struck by how much love radiated off her despite the grief she carried. I’d told her as much, and do you know what she said?

“The heart is like the vagina. It can take one hell of a pounding and come out the other side grateful to have had the experience.”

After cackling so loudly that every head in a two-row radius whipped in my direction, I’d carefully ripped the blank page from the beginning of my book (I’m not normally a monster, but I didn’t have a notebook, so it was literally the only paper I had) and I asked to see a picture of Donald. For the rest of the flight, I listened to stories of their life while doing my best to capture that love on paper.

As we made our final descent, I’d passed her phone back to her along with the sketch I’d drawn—her in the middle seat and Donald in the vacant aisle seat beaming at his amazing wife.

It’s not until I reach the escalator to baggage claim that I realize twothings: Eloise never asked why I was upset, and despite the emotional baggage I’d brought on the plane with me, I’d pretty much laughed and smiled all the way from Knoxville to Raleigh.

Also—where the heck are my parents?

I scan the nearby baggage carousels in case they’re waiting at the wrong one, then check my messages and see that the last text I sent to my mom was delivered but not read. She said they were on the way when I called her before boarding, so I know they didn’t forget to pick me up. Maybe they’re in the black hole of cell phone reception, otherwise known as the parking garage. How can we control satellites millions of miles away, but we can’t talk on the phone in an open-air concrete structure?

For now, I focus on hauling my two massive suitcases off the carousel and fighting my way through the crowd to an empty bench in view of the exit. After plopping down, I dial my mom. It rings four times and switches to an automated greeting saying the person at this number is not available. I immediately hang up and try my dad’s number but get the same result.

Okay. No big deal. They probably left their phones in the car, and they’ll walk through the sliding doors any second.

Fifteen minutes later, I will myself to stay calm and think. When I talked to Mom before I boarded, they were halfway to the airport and expected to arrive about fifteen minutes before I landed. It’s just under three hours from Oak Island to Raleigh, so halfway would be...crap. Did they go through Wilmington or Fayetteville?

At twenty minutes, I try their phones again.

And again.

And again.

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