Page 5 of Wayfarers

he’d say he wanted me to pick a sandwich place for lunch

which at first was awesome (Quinoa’s, every time!) and then

started to become this mental guessing game, Cal

unexcited about Quinoa’s eventually, then Jimmy John’s and

the Lake Café, no not grinders at the pizza place either—

did he even want a sandwich? Why was it my job

to read his mind when he didn’t know it himself? My job to refill

the wiper fluid again in my stepdad’s car, to make

my mom’s dentist appointment. Everyone else’s idea of “fun”—

dip mani-pedis, shiatsu massages, eight-hour

movie marathons, two grand on a New Year’s party

in a party limo hitting up Springfield’s hottest bars—

that was the stuff my mom did

that stressed me the hell out. Play didn’t feel good.

Work did. On TikTok I watched these girls

in their Sprinter vans with their maps

and their national park passes, their thirty-five square feet

of shipshape living space, playing

the four-dimensional chess required to get them

from place to place. And they did it for themselves.

For no one else. Sure, sometimes a boyfriend

was along for the ride or a dog in a bandanna,

but the girls I followed were in charge,

full stop. They decided. Waterfalls today,

the salt flats tomorrow, the Sleeping Bear

Dunes? Why choose. Have it all. Body attuned

to the world so your brain could rest

until the next adventure. I said all that,

more or less, to Cal, and to his credit

he’d paused his game to listen. Let’s do it,