The Last Forever Read Online Free Page B

place as a virgin on the Las Vegas Strip.
    “Don’t jump to conclusions before you’ve even been there.”
    This doesn’t deserve a response either.
    “Come on, Tess. Don’t be like this.”
    “Like what?” I say, but of course I know.
    “This is supposed to be . . .”
    “Supposed to be what ?”
    I swear, we’re an old married couple. The sound of our toothbrushing contains barely suppressed rage. I keep on with my high-pitched, cool I’m fine -ness, and Dad keeps on with his pissed-but-not-pissed, ignoring-me-but-not-ignoring-me act until the next morning, when we are back in the truck. Then I just go for the silent treatment—always a classic—and stare out the window on the way to Las Vegas.
    We check into a place called the Flamingo. Dad says it’s a splurge. The bedspread is actually nice. You don’t think of bodily fluids when you look at it. There’s a pool with a slide. We explore the city. There are lights and crowds and the constant bing-jing sound of casinos. I feel like I’m inside a pinball machine. There is a fake rainstorm in one hotel and fake canals of Venice in another, and there are guys on every corner handing out flyers to strip shows. There are slabs of prime rib bigger than your head, though I have to admit, I sort of like those. I like the ceiling of blown-glass flowers in that one hotel too, although I don’t tell Dad that.
    “I can’t eat another bite,” I said, eating another bite. Banana cream pie. The meringue on top is tall enough to go on the rides at Disneyland. Everything here is oversized, and I do mean everything.
    My mood is just starting to improve when, through a bite of pie, my father says, “Portland.”
    “What do you mean, ‘Portland’?” I’m afraid to ask. I’m done, more than done, with this trip. I am ready to go home. It hasn’t quite been the life-changing shake-up I was hoping for. Nothing has become more solid or connected; nothing has become more understood. I’ve had to erase several new follow-up messages from Meg and Dillon, who both now sound pissed off, and my father is becoming more of an alien the more time we spend together. Basically, he’s driving me crazy. If you think a road trip is a good idea, just remember that strained family relationships plus long car rides equals homicidal impulses.
    “I mean, let’s go to Portland.”
    “Oregon?”
    “Of course Oregon.”
    “Why Oregon? What’s in Oregon?”
    “I went to school in Oregon. I’ve got friends there.”
    “Since when?” You get to thinking you know everything about your parents. You have to think that. It’s too unsettling otherwise.
    “Since forever.”
    “I don’t want to go to Portland.” Summer is about to start, and my mind neatly erases all the loneliness and distance I’ve felt for the last three months and starts playing the shiny, green-grass and blue-sky film version—Dillon and me holding hands while leaping in the ocean, Meg and me playing volleyball on a beach. And wait, there’s Jessa Winters, too, spikingthe ball in her tiny bikini, though I hate sports, and volleyball makes my palms sting, and Jessa Winters isn’t even our friend. This is some bad teen movie where a shark’s about to appear and turn the water bloody.
    “You never want to go anywhere. You always do this.”
    “Always-never statements,” I say. “One of the Ten Communication Killers.” I read that in one of Mom’s magazines.
    “What do you want from me, Tess? I’m doing everything I can here!” Dad’s voice is getting loud. Two women diners in shiny tank tops look over at us.
    “When you talk to me in a raised voice, I feel frustrated.” Always use I statements.
    “Are you implying I can’t communicate? Is that what you’re saying? I’m an excellent communicator!” he yells.
    Now we’re that couple fighting in the restaurant. My father runs his hand through his hair. I sigh and study the saltshaker. People are looking away. The waitress glances over