Page 59 of The Road Sometimes Taken

“You’re going to the wedding too?” Jake asks.

“Cara’s bringing me as her plus one so yeah, I’ll be there,” I reply, putting my hands in my pocket and looking down, tryingnot to show any reaction. My head is racing with thoughts of Cara in a formal dress and also taking it off her after.

“Good, see you then. Thanks again for helping with this.”

“No need to thank me, just don’t fuck it up. Kay?” I warn and he smiles and nods, walking with Allie to one of the vehicles that came to pick us up. With the amount of wine we’ve all had, I didn’t want to risk anyone driving so I ordered everyone a car to take them back to their hotels. The one for Cara and me is waiting in the back of the driveway, with Cara already inside. She said her feet hurt so after she hugged everyone, she got in the car.

After everyone’s safely on their way, I find Cara sound asleep on the backseat. I give the driver directions to where we’re going and lift Cara’s head onto my lap so she’s more comfortable. She wiggles against me so I try to soothe her back to sleep, “Sh, sh, sh,” I whisper, brushing her hair off her face and behind her ear.

In between bringing her arm around my lap and a yawn she says, “I really like you, Manuel Zabana, I hope you know that.” Her words stop me in my tracks and I start thinking about the possibility of her letting me in—maybe giving me a chance—even if I’m not enough for her. Maybe she’ll give me a chance beyond this trip and I will find it in me to prove to her that I’m worth her time. Maybe if she gives me the chance I can work to show her every minute of every day how worthy she is of it all. I want to be one of those damn bracelets, captured in a timeless token into a memory she doesn’t want to let go.

“Look at this place,”Cara says in awe. We woke up early and after breakfast, we left the house to explore Nashville. We took the city tour and have been hopping on and off the bus all day. We’re at our final destination for the day and Cara’s highlight of the trip, according to everything that she has said. The Grand Ole Opry is stunning and she seems to think so, too. The wooden beams overhead seem to hum with the melody of the artists who have performed here over the years. You may not be able to hear the music but you can feel it the moment you walk inside. The walls are covered with photographs of country music icons, their smiles frozen in time, each telling their own story. It’s perfect and watching this place through her eyes has got to be the most magical thing I’ve ever seen.

We wander further into the venue, the stage surrounded by beautiful light. I can almost imagine the strum of a guitar and the laughter of an audience from years past. I can almost hear the room filled with melodies and singing. Cara glances up at the giant chandelier, its crystals sparkling just like her eyes, like stars in a night sky. Her eyes are alight with joy, taking it all in and when I think she couldn’t get more excited, her skin breaks out in goosebumps as she takes the space in. Her hands grip her arms, rubbing them up and down while she says, “This place is beautiful.”

I pause next to her, bringing my hand up to her chin, lifting and tilting it so she can look at me. “Youare beautiful.” Her cheeks blush as she goes on her tiptoes and kisses my lips with a soft kiss.

“Thanks, now hush, let’s go.” We pause at a small exhibit showcasing some artifacts—an old cowboy hat, a vintage microphone, and handwritten lyrics. Each piece feels like a whisper from the past, inviting us to share the moment with them. This is why I like museums and exhibitions; it’s like history livesthrough them and there’s so much to learn, if not only from the exhibition itself but from all the hidden truths between them.

“Thank you for coming with me on this trip, Manny,” she whispers. “I didn’t think I needed anyone to make this trip better but you sure have. Thank you.”

“Happy to do it, Carita mia,” I reply, pulling her under my arm and kissing her head. We walk side by side until we join a small group waiting for our tour guide. “Want to ditch the tour?” I ask and that earns me a big smile and her eyes shine with mischief, as her gaze locks with mine.

I grab her hand and pull her toward the exit, my thumb gently rubbing the back of her hand as we walk fast past people waiting to enter. I grab my phone as we walk down the steps and toward the garden, Cara giggling at my side. I call the company and tell them to send a car our way, while Cara and I walk down the street taking in the beautiful day. We have to wait for the car to arrive so I steer her to the giant guitar by the front. “Want a picture?” I ask her, pointing to it.

“You’re not annoyed at my excessive amount of pictures yet?” she asks, grabbing her phone from her small brown purse with the giant glittery heart and handing it to me.

“I could never be annoyed by anything you do. Plus, you look absolutely adorable standing in front of the camera. Do you like pictures? Take your pictures.”

“Are you sure you’re a man? Because you sure as hell don’t act like one sometimes,” Cara quips and I flinch. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean you’re so patient and, like, encourage all my shenanigans and you don’t complain when I ramble. It’s just odd,” she adds.

“It’s not that hard, Carita. Is that where your bar is set? With men who won’t listen to you or take your picture? All the way on the damn ground it seems.”

“The swoony man only exists in books and in front ofpeople; behind closed doors, they turn into monsters.” That sentence hit me right in the chest. She doesn’t know how much I feel that about my own dad and how he portrays himself as a family man when truly none of us are ever enough in his eyes. He is kind to our mom and that’s the main reason we tolerate him but the man is a piece of shit sometimes. It also makes me want to kill every man she’s ever been around with that gave her that same feeling.

I walk to her, closing the gap between us, forgetting the picture I was trying to get. “Cara,” I whisper, bringing my hand up to cup her face, “Can’t you see? You deserve the world. You deserve patience, and swoony moments. You deserve to have your picture taken, and your chicken tenders for dinner. You deserve slow dancing and someone to hold your purse when you just want to spin around. You deserve to be driven around and be taken to placesyouwant to go. I’ve heard you tell all your friends they deserve better, why don’t you think the same for you? Why is it so hard for you to believe that you deserve better too?

A silent tear rolls down her face as she leans into my hand and says, “I don’t want to cry in front of all these people, Manny.”

“Then let’s disappear, bebé. Just you and me, okay?” I ask and with her nod, we walk toward the vehicle already waiting for us.

We drive around, away from the city and the crowd, quietly watching out the window as we get further and further from the chaos. We are dropped off in a wooded area secluded enough to have privacy in the park, but still on the private property where I want to take her—if she’s up to it after we talk.

Opening the door of the vehicle for her, I give Cara my hand and help her out, walking side by side with her until we reach a large swing under a tree in the park. When I wasresearching things to do in Nashville, I found this spot. It’s quiet and beautiful and I knew we could find some privacy here.

She takes a spot on the swing next to me, tilting her head back onto the backrest and kicking her feet as if trying to rock herself but not reaching the ground—so I help her. We rock softly, keeping each other company and sharing the silence. Somehow, this quiet moment has spoken to me more than years of words. I sit in silence next to Cara for five, ten, fifteen minutes now, just aimlessly swinging, watching the sun disappear behind high mountain peaks, letting the change in the air pass us by with every minute—and just be.

I don’t remember the last timejust beingwas enough and I like it. I love it. I think I loveher. Maybe I always have, deep down, secretly, behind closed doors. Maybe I never put it into words or thoughts because why would I when it wouldn’t be reciprocated? But now, how could I help it? How could I not see that she brings out the best in people—in me? That she sets people free. With her carefree spirit and her silliness. With her funny highway games and her childish drinks. She lets her inner child free and it’s beautiful to see. So yeah, I think I do love her.

I want to give her time and space. I want to let her tell me what she’s thinking if she wants to, but I also want her to know I’m here to listen or to just keep her company if that’s what she wants.

“Carita,” I say, my voice comes out groggy as if I’ve been sleeping for a while but it’s the emotion building up inside of my heart that won’t let me clear my throat. Like those three words are threatening to come out and it won’t clear until they do.

“Mm hm,” she mumbles, her eyes closed, and her perfect lips relaxed.

“You know you can talk to me, right? I know you shared some of what was bothering you the other day, but I’m here. For as long as you’ll have me, share with me. I may not be able to give you good advice but I’m a good listener.”

Her mossy green eyes snap open, tilting her head to face me and looking at me she says, “You are a good listener and it’s not that I don’t want to talk to you it’s that I don’t know why I’m still dwelling on shit that happened a long time ago.”

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