Page 45 of People We Meet on Vacation

“Of course,” Alex says.

“We’ll see,” I say, and then they walk us outside—box of condoms left safely on the island—and wave to us as we back down thedriveway, and Alex grins and waves back until we’re finally out of sight, at which point he looks at me and says flatly, “I am very mad at you.”

“How can I make it up to you?” I bat my eyelashes like a sexy cartoon cat.

He rolls his eyes, but a smirk twists up in the corner of his mouth as his eyes return to the road. “For one thing, you aredefinitelyriding a mechanical bull.”

I kick my feet up onto the dashboard, proudly displaying the cowgirl boots I found at a thrift store a few weeks ago. “Way ahead of you.”

His eyes slide to me, move down my legs to the bright red leather. “And those are supposed to keep you on a mechanical bullhow?”

I click my heels together. “They’re not. They’re just supposed to charm the handsome country singer at the bar into scraping me off the mat and into his farm-buff arms.”

“Farm buff,” Alex snorts, unimpressed by the idea.

“Says Gym-Buff,” I tease.

He frowns. “I exercise for my anxiety.”

“Yes, I’m sure you couldn’t care less about that gorgeous body. It’s incidental.”

His jaw pulses, and his eyes fix on the road again. “I like to look nice,” he says in a voice that implies an added,Is that a crime?

“I do too.” I slide one of my feet along the dash until my red boot is in his field of vision. “Obviously.”

His gaze darts over my leg down to the middle console where his aux cable sits in a neat loop. “Here.” He hands it to me. “Why don’t you get us started?”

These days we always take turns running sound in the station wagon, but Alex always gives me the first shot, because he is Alex, and he is the best.

I insist on an all-country playlist for the length of the drive. Mine is populated by Shania Twain, Reba McEntire, Carrie Underwood, and Dolly Parton. His is all Patsy Cline and Willie Nelson, Glen Campbell and Johnny Cash, and a helping of Tammy Wynette and Hank Williams.

We found the hotel on Groupon months ago, and it’s one of those kitschy, one-off places with a neon-pink sign (cartoon cowboy hat balanced atop the word VACANCY) that makes the nickname “Nashvegas” finally make sense to me.

We check in and take our stuff inside. Each room is vaguely themed after a famous Nashville musician. Meaning there are framed pictures of them all over the room, and then the same hideous floral comforters and dense tan fleeces on all the beds. I tried to request the Kitty Wells room, but apparently when you book through Groupon, you don’t get to pick.

We are in the Billy Ray Cyrus room.

“Do you think he gets paid for this?” I ask Alex, who’s pulling up the bedding to check for bedbugs along the bottom of the mattresses.

“Doubtful,” he says. “Maybe they throw him the occasional frozen yogurt Groupon or something.” He pushes back the drapes and gazes out at the flashing neon sign. “Do they do rooms by the hour here?” he says skeptically.

“Doesn’t really matter,” I say, “since I left the condom crate at home.”

He shudders and drops onto one of the beds, satisfied that it’s bug free. “If I hadn’t had towitnessthat, it would actually be pretty sweet.”

“Iwould have still had to witness it, Alex. Don’tImatter?”

“Yeah, but you’re her daughter. The closest my dad ever came to giving us a sex talk was leaving a book about purity on each of ourbeds around the time we turned thirteen. I thought masturbating caused cancer until I was, like, sixteen.”

My chest squeezes tight. Sometimes I forget how hard Alex has had it. His mom died from complications during David’s birth, and Mr. Nilsen and the four Nilsen boys have been wife- and motherless since. His dad finally dated a woman from their church last year, but they broke up after three months, and even though Mr. Nilsen was the one to end it, he was still so torn up that Alex had to drive home from school in the middle of the week to get him through it.

Alex is the one his brothers call too, when something goes wrong. The emotional rock.

Sometimes I think that’s why we’re so drawn to each other. Because he’s used to being the steadfast big brother and I’m used to being the annoying little sister. It’s a dynamic we understand: I lovingly tease him; he makes the entire world feel safer for me.

This week, though, I’m not going to need anything from him. It’s my mission to help Alex let loose, to bring Silly Alex back out of Overworked, Hyperfocused Alex.

“You know,” I say, sitting on the bed, “if you ever want to borrow some overbearing parents, mine are obsessed with you. I mean, clearly. My mom wants you to take my virginity.”

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