“We can’t actually go to the hospital to see Viv right now; only family is allowed and I don’t want to be mobbed if we’re recognized in the waiting room. Let’s go to my mom’s until we get the okay. It’s been a while; it’ll be good to see her . . .” Her voice drifted off, as if uncertain.

I reached over without thinking, pushed a lock of her hair off of her forehead with two gentle fingers. It wasn’t what I expected to do—it seemed too personal, and I could feel her soft exhale on my inner arm as I held her gaze for a moment, before quickly withdrawing my hand and placing it on the wheel. How had I never noticed how absolutely beautiful she was? How had I thought she had a gerbil-like face when we first met?

The flicker I’d seen in her eyes convinced me that this was a topic that I shouldn’t pry into. I swallowed.

“Okay, let’s go.” I shifted back into drive and we eased back out onto the road.

WE STOPPED FOR gas, protein bars, and a bathroom in a town called Lacy, taking a short stint on a gravel-paved highway back to the 5, past Stockton. “Would you mind telling me how much longer we’ll be driving?” I asked softly, as the afternoon got even brighter.

“A little longer.”

It seemed like a little longer was a continuous refrain, but finally Rose said, “Turn off here.” There wasn’t even a sign for the town, just an exit number. We rolled past a population sign that was skewed to one side, having been broadsided by a car at some point. We sped past a gas station and a dry-goods store, taking straight roads toward a residential street. “Stop at the second on the left.” We parked in front of a modest house with an older 1980s Ford sedan sitting in the short driveway. The silence after I turned off the car made me rub my ear in surprise.

Rose was already stepping out of the passenger side, tugging at the back pockets of her jeans to keep them from riding up. I stretched and folded the state map, jamming it into my bag as I plodded up a dirt drive behind Rose. She stopped in front of the door, hesitating, then pulled it open.

The front door led directly into the living room, which was lit by only one lamp, and filled with large, overstuffed furniture. One wall was completely covered in crosses of different sizes and materials, some of them lumpy like they’d been shaped by a child. I shifted my gaze to a woman in a fluffy couch, sipping from a straw in a convenience-store Styrofoam cup. Her hair was dyed red but her light brown roots were showing.

“Hi, Mom,” Rose said, reaching down to give her a hug. Her mother glanced over Rose’s shoulder at me. “This is Cassidy. She drove me.”

“You can’t drive yourself?”

“It’s a new car.”

Her mother seemed perturbed by this comment. “And you still couldn’t drive yourself? Drove my Ford all over Northern California, but you can’t even make it out of L.A. on your own.” Rose didn’t respond. Her mother reached out a hand to me. “I’m Clara. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, clasping her damp hand. “We’re just here because . . .” I faltered, not sure if it was my place to say.

“Just here to visit,” Rose said.

“You girls hungry?”

We shook our heads and Clara took a long pull from her straw. We watched the muted television screen, which was playing Judge Judy. “I suppose you’ll want to stay the night,” Clara said, eyes still on the TV. “It’s a long drive. Your room is still as it ever was. You know where the spare blankets are.”

Rose turned toward the depths of the house. “Cassy, let me show you where you’ll be.”

She took me around the corner to a small bedroom with only enough space for a bureau and tiny desk that butted up against the bed, so one could potentially do homework while sitting cross-legged on a twin mattress. All four walls and the ceiling were covered in posters and magazine clippings of celebrities a tween-aged Rose would have idolized. A mirror over the bureau doubled as a scrapbook: glossy photos of Rose posing with friends, arms slung around each other, graying Calvin and Hobbes comics trimmed from the newspaper, and inspirational quotes written directly onto the silver surface in dry-erase marker made it difficult to see a reflection. The room seemed too juvenile for the taste of the Rose I knew; a pink ruffled bedspread adorned the bed and her pillows were covered in eyelet fabric. She twirled around in the gap between door and bed frame. “Ta-da.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What about Oakland?”

Rose blew out a long breath. “We’re only a couple of hours from Oakland. If I said I was from Bumfuck, California, no one would know what I was talking about. And it’s almost true. The other girls in the group are sort of from there. Our talent competitions were in the Bay Area. It just made sense to say Oakland.”

“What’s the point, though?”

“The point,” she said emphatically, “is that we’re selling sophisticated, savvy, sexy women from a big city. What if we did a profile in a magazine and they said we were from Podunk, Nowhere? I bet you if Rolling Stone said that I was from a town of twenty thousand people we wouldn’t have had our big rise.”

I rubbed behind one ear. “But you are. And we have.”

“Doesn’t matter. And now that we’ve said Oakland for so long, there’s no point in clearing the air now.”

“And your dad?”

Her lower jaw jutted out slightly and she hugged a pillow to her chest. “What’s there to say? They’re divorced and now he lives in the city.”

I sat down next to her on the narrow bed and then laid out, stretching my tired legs. She remained with her back to me, spine curved. We were quiet, and the entire world was quiet too. What I wanted to ask was why she didn’t confide in her mother about Viv’s ill health. Instead, I tapped her lightly with one socked toe. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

She grabbed my foot. “I know.” She exhaled through her nose. “But I can’t talk to her about Viv. We wouldn’t hear the end of it. You wouldn’t understand.”

The room was dim and it was so, so quiet.

IT WAS AWKWARD being in a strange house with two people I didn’t know very well. Though Rose and I had been living together for almost a couple of years now, it occurred to me just how little I’d gathered about her life besides her business acumen. She had rolled over onto her side on the eyelet bed, alone in her thoughts, so still that I felt that the sound of my breathing was intruding.

When I stepped out of her bedroom to give her some space, I found that the rest of the house was just as uncomfortable. Clara continued to sip through her straw, alone, the flicker of the television painting her face blue. Her eyes in the darkened room seemed rheumy, glass marbles that rolled like they were weighted at the bottoms. I began to question what was in the cup.

“That girl, though,” Clara said, and I wasn’t sure if it was directed at me or if she was speaking to herself. “Roping another person into driving her all the way here. Lord help us.” She seemed to register my presence and patted the cushion next to hers, but I remained standing. “You’re not going to see that girl, are you? That Ortiz trash?”

“I . . . I don’t know her,” I said hesitantly.