I frown. The less said about that, the better. “I was surprised to see Ann. I’d forgotten that she worked with you.”
“Yes. That’s how we met, and when I started going to the RMRA, she got really interested in it, too.”
“Is she also a war refugee?”
Jenna nods. “Yes. From Somalia. She and her family escaped the war there by fleeing to Kenya before making it to the US.”
I think about that as we continue to drive. “And Raul? Where is he from?”
“Honduras. His mom was killed on their journey here, which was almost completely on foot, all the way up from Central America. It was horrible.”
I picture Ann and Raul and their families walking through jungles or across deserts to find safety, and I’m suddenly sad that others have been born into such unfortunate situations. Like Jenna, for example. I can only imagine she saw more death and horror in the first five years of her life than I’ve ever seen—movies included. I realize how lucky I am, especially as I think about the news reports of the refugees from Syria who are escaping under similar circumstances.
“What was your journey like?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh, you mean from Yugoslavia?”
“Yes, was it like that? On foot?”
She pauses for a moment and glances out the window. “No, we were put on a truck in Sarajevo—my aunt, my sister and me—and driven to Zagreb in Croatia. There was a checkpoint along the way, and…” She shudders and shakes her head. “Anyway, it was not like Raul’s at all. We had some family in Zagreb and stayed there until we could fly to America. I was lucky.”
After hearing her story and some of the things she’s been through, I don’t think that she’s as lucky as she feels she is. I just think she’s strong. Incredibly strong.
And beautiful—not just on the outside, but all the way to the core of what makes her her. Jenna helps people and she’s compassionate…it doesn’t take a professional artist to appreciate that beauty.
I hope that in proving my worthiness, I’ll win her over and she’ll want to stay. Because the more time I spend with her, the more I want her with me for good.
But now my thoughts shift as we pull into the enormous “Mickey and Friends” parking structure that serves park guests. A weight drops into my stomach, my heart is racing and my breathing is coming fast. And though it’s not even close to what Jenna has endured, I’m still filled with dread at the thought of reliving some of my own childhood horrors.
Chapter 17
Jenna
We opted out of taking the crowded tram from the parking structure. This way, as we walked, our transition would be more gradual, less likely to induce anxiety. Fortunately, there were fewer people as it was the middle of the week in April, and the park was not near as busy as it could be in high season.
But William still looked tense, so I decided to get his mind off of his fears. “So how come your dad and Adam call you ‘Liam’? You don’t seem to like it much.”
“It’s a family nickname.”
“Ah, family only?”
“Family members and old friends called me Liam when I was young. They’re used to it. But I prefer William.”
“Oh, so I shouldn’t call you Wil, then.”
“Wil is fine—when you call me that.”
I smiled. “So I’m the only one who can call you Wil?”
“Well, I can’t exactly stop someone if they want to call me Wil.”
“Would you want to stop me?” I tilted my head toward him with a cocked eyebrow.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“How you are saying it. If you’re speaking in an angry voice or shouting, I’d rather you not use it at all.”
I laughed and he smiled. Then he reached for my hand and I took it, squeezing it for reassurance—my silent way of saying, “You got this.”
“Jenna is technically my nickname,” I continued, noticing he was more at ease while he was talking to me. “But it became my legal name when I was naturalized as a US citizen.”
He turned his head toward me, surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah, I chose it when I came here and started school. It’s kind of close to my real name, Janja. People were mispronouncing it. It looks like ‘Jan-ja’ but supposed to be said ‘Yan-ya.’ I was little and it bugged me, so I changed it.” I shrugged.
He frowned but didn’t say anything.
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head as we walked along, his free hand stuffed in his pocket. “I just realized that there are so many things I don’t know about you. And it made me sad realizing that there’s so much more I’ll never know.”
I blinked, suddenly aware of a vague ache in my chest and the little voice at the back of my head that said it’s better that way. It would hurt less.
“How do you say my name in Bosnian?” he said.
“Vilijam,” I replied.
“And you’d shorten that to Vil? Someone might call me ‘Vile’ instead. I like it in English better.”
I laughed, relieved by the levity. William could be a funny guy, a sharp contrast to his stoic, silent demeanor. I laughed more with him than I did with most guys I’d dated.
We were quickly approaching the park entrance. “Okay, the first hurdle is going to be the ticket stands,” I said, squeezing his hand again. “It’s a turnstile, so people will be lined up. There might be some crowding there.”
As we exited Downtown Disney, William looked ahead of us, past the shops and restaurants, toward the entrance to the park. “First, they’ll look through your bag over at that station, there,” he said, pointing toward the bag inspection station. “Then they’ll take our tickets at the gate. I looked up the entire procedure online so that I could be prepared and anticipate any outcome. I also memorized a map of the place.”
I followed his gaze. “That’s right. And after that, we’ll pass the Mickey Mouse flowers on the front lawn just below the train station, then go through the tunnel to Main Street USA. There’s usually a cluster of people taking pictures there.”
He nodded. “You know this place really well.”
“Alex used to work here. She snuck me in all the time. That is, after I told her the story.”