Into You Series: The Complete Collection

4. Saria

CHAPTER 4

SARIA

T he one reliable fact about me is that I am unreliable, so of course I woke up later than I planned to. I forgot to set an alarm in the chaos of getting to a man’s loft and getting my brains screwed out once, twice, four times? But when I do wake up naturally, I know I need to get the heck out of there as soon as possible.

I don’t stay to greet Harry. Sure, I spend maybe two minutes staring at how beautiful he looks in the morning light that shines through the large window in his kitchen, but I definitely don’t wake him up. It looks like he fell asleep in the recliner. He snores a little, but only so much so that it sounds like a snoozing puppy.

Harry is an absolute treasure, one I definitely didn’t deserve, so I end our story with a kiss on his forehead, like maybe that could be a decent apology for using him then dipping. After that, I tiptoe down from his lofted apartment and call a rideshare back home.

By the time I change at my apartment, swing by Dad’s house, and drive one hour away to pick up my van, we’re very late. But being late is the least of my worries.

I should have known my unreliability would one day result in some bad karma. I didn’t realize it would be this bad, though. This is so bad. Like, really bad. Maybe not one-night-stand-with-a-fake-boyfriend bad, but it’s definitely not good.

I convince myself to remain optimistic—or at least keep up the appearance of it—as I stare at the junkyard 1994 Chevy van in front of me that I was told would instead be a fully converted VW Pop Top. In van conversion terms, this is like being told you’re buying a mansion versus a shack.

I got screwed.

The toothy, satisfied grin of the van’s seller isn’t helping. I knew the images on the sale listing looked too staged. They were taken on a manicured lawn. Instead, we are in a junkyard. Looking back, I bet the former owner probably just bought stock photos. And I say “former owner” because I am about to be the new, proud proprietor of this disappointing trash.

But hey, it’s my disappointing trash that will lead to freedom. Sure, I’ve been van catfished, but I’ve watched enough renovation videos. I like a challenge. I can totally handle this. Independence, ahoy!

“Knock it down a thousand and I’ll take it,” I say. My dad lets out a bear-like groan as if the world has just collapsed on him.

“It’s fully renovated,” the seller says, lifting his ballcap and smoothing back the few strands of hair left on his balding head, as if it being renovated will cover his lie.

I simply nod and dig in my purse, grabbing the wad of cash banded together by a pink hair tie, pluck out a few bills, and shove it toward the man. “One thousand less or I walk away.”

A slap of a hand on skin follows another loud moan, and I turn around to find my dad’s head buried in both his hands.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he says. “But al’righ’, then. I’ll get the papers and keys…” The statement carries out like a death sentence right before the seller takes the money and lets out a sound resembling a hee-hee . When he shuffles back into the dilapidated shed he came from, I wonder if that laugh bodes well for me.

I run my hands along the side of it. I thought it was a tan color, but my finger comes away with a fine layer of dirt and I realize that, no, it just needs a wash.

“It’s fixable,” I say, looking to my dad, whose arms are tightly crossed. “I can fix it.”

“Hell, does it even run?” Dad asks, kicking toward the van and peering through the windows. “If it does, you’ll still need a mechanic. Honestly, I’ll feel more comfortable if I’m the one who drives it to the shop tomorrow. I don’t want them making you pay for more repairs than you need.”

I laugh to myself because I think I just ran out on the only mechanic who would probably give me a decent deal.

“It may not need repairs,” I say.

“Have you seen this thing?” Dad asks incredulously, stroking his hand on the passenger door and wrapping it around the handle. The damn thing pops right off.

He stares at me unblinking. “I barely touched that.”

“It’s fixable,” I repeat. “I can fix it.”

“Saying it again doesn’t make it true,” he mumbles, dropping the cool metal into my hand.

I turn my head to the side, rolling the car part in my palm and analyzing it with a squint. “It might.”

“My daughter is going to be homeless,” he says, shaking his head slowly.

“No, I’ll live in the van. That’s the point.”

He continues to circle the vehicle, as if this thing represents much more than just an unreliable form of shelter. It’s like this is the final, rusty nail in the coffin of my dead potential.

I was supposed to be in vet school. I was supposed to be engaged or, according to some aunts and uncles, have a husband —maybe be en route to having a couple kids for Dad and Mom to dote on. Instead, I’m buying a van to renovate and live in while I travel the country.

I pat his back. “I have a plan, Dad.”

I can count my biggest weaknesses on three fingers. For one, I am late to almost everything. If it weren’t for the three consecutive blaring alarm clocks—one of which may as well have been the teeth-grinding clang of an old-fashioned cymbal-slamming monkey—I might have missed class every day throughout college.

Number two, I’m impulsive. Jessi will be the first to tell me that. Case in point: fake boyfriend Harry. Which brings me to my final point…

Number three, I do not prepare. I just don’t plan . See number one. And possibly the root cause of number two. And why my dad is lamenting the fact that he and Mom didn’t have a second child to carry on their successful legacy.

No, just a daughter about to quit her safe office job and live in a van.

“I researched it,” I lie. “It wasn’t supposed to be so…broken.” I instantly cringe at the word. Is it weird to feel an emotional connection with a struggling vehicle? This van is only trying its best.

“Why not just buy an RV that is already built for travel?” he asks. “I’d happily help you out with that, pumpkin. Fill it with gas, change the oil…then off you go to do the whole travel thing.”

“But I’m not going to be in some family RV park with kids in tiny arm floaties. I’m going to see the World . Big ‘W’— THE World .”

“I miss seeing you in those floaties.” He sighs. “Because when you did that, you weren’t talking about living in a van down by the river.”

“But it will be a non-touristy river.”

“Why not be a tourist? Tourism isn’t bad. Stay with the tourists. Be the tourist, pumpkin.”

Down the lane, another car rumbles through the gravel, traversing between small mounds of trash as if parting the Red Sea of junk. Dirt billows in its wake as it slows to a park. Jessi steps out of the car in stilettos, high-waisted leather pants, and a loose, hole-filled sweater tucked into the top. She looks completely out of place. But then again, I do too in my black jeans ripped at the knee and wedge booties—notably not snapped in half like my heels from last night.

When we crossed county lines, I could have sworn I heard distant banjos ring-a-dinging their national anthems, and here we are in outfits that probably retail for more than my future traveling home post-repairs.

“I love it,” Jessi says with a wide grin, shutting her car door. “Do you love it? I love it.” My heart soars as she catwalks over, eyeing the van as if it’s the greatest thing she’s ever seen, like it’s heaven on wheels instead of the rusty boxcar that it is. “Sorry I’m late. You win the bet.” She pulls me into a hug. “How was the sex with fake boyfriend?” she whispers.

“Shush,” I hiss. “Hey, look!” I run to the van and rip the sliding door open. Dust poofs out like it’s smoke from a dragon that hasn’t been woken up in about five thousand years. I wave my hand in front of my face, coughing and hoping for the air to clear. “I can picture it now! The bed over there, some pots and pans along this wall, maybe some string lights?—”

“Ooh, I like string lights!” she coos.

“Right?!” I gush. “Pretty string lights.”

“Oh God, take me now.” My dad’s arms are stiffly crossed, and his brows are stitched in the middle. “You’re homeless. I’ll say it: you are homeless.”

“Not if she lives here,” Jessi says, optimism shining brightly on her face.

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” Dad asks, narrowing his eyes.

“VannaWhite does it.” Jessi shrugs.

“Oh, I’ve heard enough of VannaWhite,” he says in anger. Rightly so. I haven’t shut up about VannaWhite for the past year, and I don’t mean the woman of Wheel of Fortune fame who can present new letters to you better than Elmo in his best Saturday morning puppet fur. I mean VannaWhite—one simple username—the beautiful, silver-haired woman who took the social media scene by storm last year and made the concept of renovating and living in a van the new millennial phenomenon.

“Saria, I think it’s great that you’re achieving your dreams,” Jessi says, tossing a side smile. It’s reassuring, but apparently only to me.

“Dreams?” Dad bellows, his hands waving in the air like the word itself is flying around him, escaping the very grip he has on the reliability of taxes and mortgages. “What did I tell you about hanging with the wrong crowds? Huh?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Hillard,” Jessi says. “I’m still the good influence.”

He exhales, burying his head in his hands once more.

“She is going to be a surgeon,” I chime in, but this only grants me a small peek through his fingers before groaning again. Maybe it’s best not to remind him that my friends are far more successful than me. Jessi is actually getting her doctorate, whereas I was too distracted to even begin studying for the veterinary school exam.

“You could be an amazing au pair in France,” Dad says. “Why not do that? You babysat for years. That involves travel and pays well.”

“Nope, Dad. Van life.”

“Whatever. Let me go see what’s taking this guy so long,” he says, storming toward the shed.

“Don’t bother him,” I call over. “We’ll get the registration and go as soon as he comes back with the keys.”

“Registration my ass. Pumpkin, we could steal this car and the cops wouldn’t care. Bet it doesn’t even start.” He kicks in the edge of the door to the shed with his boot, like a man looking for a fight in a saloon.

“Maybe if he’s mad enough, he’ll scare the owner into lowering the price more,” Jessi says.

“I got it lowered a bit already.”

“Good for you.”

“I bet he’s paying him off to ensure the car can’t leave the lot.”

She crosses her arms and exhales, suddenly looking much too similar to my dad. “I’m gonna be real with you: This is not at all how it looked on the listing.” Rather than offending me, the comment gives me relief.

“Yeah, I’ll be honest, I thought it would be less of a…‘FREE CANDY’ type of van,” I say. “You know what I mean?”

“It has charm,” she says. We both cock our heads to the side as we spot bolts sticking out of the bumper, held in place by spray-painted duct tape as if to hide the mess they’ve made. “Look, it comes with free screws. Oh hey! You could put that on a sign like the free candy. You’d get so many more hitchhiking friends.”

“Don’t tell my dad that,” I whisper. “He already thinks this will lead to a life where I’m a woman of the night .”

“Speaking of which, how was Harry?”

“He was…” I start, but how do I tell my best friend about mind-blowing sex with a hot, older man? I don’t think any words could do it justice. “Amazing.”

“Well, you successfully convinced Heather, so at least you accomplished that.”

I laugh. “No way.”

“Oh yeah,” Jessi says. “She wouldn’t shut up about it all night. By the way…” I can tell by her apprehensive tone that I’m going to dislike her next few words. “Noah called me this morning asking if we’re busy next Saturday.”

“I bet there’s a party, isn’t there?” I say, the words a dull taste on my tongue. Our families take any chance they can to throw a party, but Noah’s family in particular loves parties of any kind. Even middle school movie nights had charcuterie boards.

“Yep.” Jessi shrugs. “You’re not gonna get weird, are you?”

“Me?” I scoff, waving my hand. “Ha! No.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure. Hey, maybe you can bring Harry as your date.”

“Highly doubtful,” I mutter. Definitely threw that possibility out the window. “Do you think his fiancée has a big ol’ wart or something?”

“Who, Noah or Harry?”

“Noah.”

Jessi wraps an arm around my shoulders, leaning her head against mine. “Of course she does, sweetie.”

“Good,” I say. “But, um, anyway, I think the van will look better when I paint it. Like, maybe a pale green? Reminds me of Frankenstein’s monster. Maybe I’ll name her Frankie.”

“Frankie sounds nice.”

We both stare at Frankie in silence, arms crossed, contemplative. Jessi doesn’t have to say anything because I know we’re both trying to find any additional positives regarding my new monster.

The door of the shed bursts open, and out walks my dad and the seller in heated conversation. The seller has the car keys in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, but both hands are angled far away from my dad, who seems to be reaching for them.

“The lady bought the car,” the seller insists. “She gets the keys.”

I wonder if maybe my dad was going to take the van for himself and drive it off a cliff to save me from having anything to do with it, but I don’t find out because I catch the keys thrown to me before my dad can try anything else.

I walk around the side, popping open the driver’s side door and stepping in. Every inch is covered in old carpet, housing the smell of stale dust. I sneeze instantly, hear the distant sound of a “Bless you!” from Jessi, then settle in the velour front seat.

The gear shift is on the steering wheel itself, and it takes me a second to get the engine to flip over, but once it does, it’s purring. Though, purring is putting it nicely. It’s more like a bear in heat trying to find its mate.

Still, I’m satisfied. Sure, it’s not the cute little thing I wanted, but I like this feeling of hope, adventure, and being free.

Frankie is alive, and so am I.