You have ulterior motives for asking Chris to go and you realize this. You promise yourself that you’ll tell him sometime because, though you’ve had plenty of opportunities to tell him in the past, this really seems like the right time, the right place. You’ve been in love with him for so long that it seems you’ll never really find the right place, because you’ve probably already passed the right place a million times without realizing it. You do know that the right place is not in the car, because you’re fairly certain you’ll want space afterward, but it is sometime, somewhere along this trip.

You try to get Chris to plan where he wants to go because you’re like that. You like plans and itineraries even if you constantly deviate and eventually completely fall off track. You like having solid plans to start with because it makes the trip more real.

You grab the atlas from the back of your car on your way into his house. It’s something your mother bought for you when you got your first car and it’s gone with you into every car since. You’ve never actually driven across a state border but it’s fun to have and to look at.

During the planning process, he immediately rules out the Northeast.

“Because, dude, I’ve been there.”

You nod, because you know that he has and that the memories from the times that he’s been there aren’t so good. And while you know that maybe, someday, he should replace those memories with happy ones, you’re sure that he can pick the time for that on his own.

“And, well, we’ve been to Florida.”

You nod again. You think you’ve seen enough of Florida to last your entire life-time.

“And California,” you say, thinking of the year you spent there before N Sync. And, of course, all the trips since.

“And Tennessee, thanks to Justin.”

“And Mississippi, thanks to Lance.”

“That leaves where?”

You look at the map, at all the places you’ve ruled out.

“Uh… the middle part.”

You see him nod importantly over the map through the corner of your eye. “Except for Vegas,” he says, pointing a small finger at the city. “But we never went to the Hoover Dam.”

“Why didn’t we last time?”

“Too busy with the games.”

You watch him as he talks and suddenly the weight of six years is on your shoulders. Longer for you, really, because you’ve been on television since you were 13. You try not to think about it most times, how many opportunities you’d missed.

“So,” you say, clearing your throat. “The Hoover Dam is on our list.”

He nods and you grab a piece of paper and a chewed up pencil from the kitchen counter. You’re making a list that will become an itinerary that will eventually be crumpled up in the back of your car, but you’re making a list.

“And the Grand Canyon,” he adds.

You start scribbling. “Right.”

“Roswell.”

“You mean that show on the WB?”

“No, dude. The city in New Mexico. Where the aliens landed.”

“Chris, aliens?”

“Whatever, man. The truth is out there.”

You kept going with him, through more lists of things you’d heard about but never seen. It made you want to cry later, because you’d never really thought too hard about how much your fame constrained you. It would spring up at random moments, when Justin wanted to go down to the beach when you were staying in LA, or when Joey wanted to bring Brianna with him to a shoot, or any number of things that would make private lives public, that reminded you that people were watching.

He got tired of planning after awhile and you figured you could finish on your own. You know you’d be going to the Southwest and you began to think that you’d probably have to end up telling him somewhere near Tucson.

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