Chapter IV #2
You , I want to say. I tug my ear until it hurts just enough to focus me.
“Being away from Carter and my family,” I offer instead.
“And about school. And the subway. Rats, too. I’m sure there were rats in the Midwest, but I didn’t see them.
What if my MetroCard doesn’t work or I ask for Ranch and someone makes fun of me?
I’m nervous about a lot.” It’s all out before I have the chance to self-edit.
Marin nods. She’s the coolest person I’ve ever met , I think.
Both in presentation and in demeanor. It’s like her emotions are buried beneath layers of steel.
I’ve never once known what she’s thinking in the twenty-four hours we’ve been together except for when we were kissing.
Even her body language, the way she rolls her neck and fixes her gaze out the window, makes me feel like she’s a thousand miles away.
Until she responds in a quiet voice, “I’m nervous about everything, too.”
Before I can reply, the Buick hits a pothole, and the cassette tape player, defunct for years, slams into place. Kenny Loggins’s “Danger Zone” starts playing.
Marin laughs, and once she gets going, she can’t stop.
She grips the dash, and her smile is the brightest I’ve seen.
I’d do anything to see more of it, so I start singing, and I do a pretty impressive Loggins impression.
It’s like this cracks the code of her emotional safe, and she lets go.
She lets me see her. She joins in before the chorus swells, and soon we’re both at top volume with the windows hand-cranked open on the interstate.
At the last verse, I turn to notice she’s tearing up.
“Eyes on the road,” she mutters, pulling her sunglasses down from where she perched them on top of her head and shoving my shoulder.
But it’s too late. Now I’m crying and not even trying to hide it, thinking about speeding into the unknown and wanting everything I left behind to stay the same in my absence.
It’s us, a few semitrucks, and the raucous chorus over the speakers. It’s funny how music really does make the drive go faster. Marin’s hair has come loose, and she’s using her hair clip as a microphone. I’ve opted for steering-wheel drums, and we’re both out of breath by the time the song ends.
“I promise to never bring up the time we both cried to Kenny Loggins in your dead grandma’s Buick,” Marin says, her face soft and kind before her eyes narrow.
I can tell she doesn’t want to say whatever’s next.
“I’m thinking we can sort of pretend like this entire road trip never happened if that’s OK with you. ”
My stomach, a whirlpool of nerves and excitement, drops.
Rationally, I’m aligned. But what happened last night—the twenty-second clip of Marin pulling me in, slipping her tongue into my mouth, tracing it across my own before pulling away—has been the only concrete fact I can trust. I thought we’d laugh about it over beers, maybe drive back to Iowa for a holiday, or see a movie on a Tuesday night some time.
But the pit in my stomach, the sucker punch of her announcement, has me rethinking everything.
“You got it, boss. Never happened.” I’m stuck behind every other vehicle trying to enter the Holland Tunnel, and suddenly the minutes I have left with this car, this cassette tape, and this girl I met yesterday can’t pass quickly enough.
Marin
“Good luck with everything.” I’m standing next to a small pile of suitcases, milk crates, and the odd art object on the curb of Eighty-Third Street.
My cousin’s room awaits me five flights up.
A thousand beats per minute feels accurate for my current heart rate.
Strangers file past us, ignoring what must be an everyday occurrence to them.
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I think it might be too late for that.
If my proposal to mind wipe the road trip didn’t do it, my refusal to let him help me carry my stuff inside certainly did.
I remind myself to stay focused on what’s in front of me, mentally silencing the kiss, the sandwich order—the Kenny fucking Loggins of it all.
Teddy’s shifting from one foot to the other on the curb, barely making eye contact.
The sad-puppy energy is working on me more than I’ll ever let on.
But I know if we keep up this shoddy attempt at friendship, things will only get murkier.
“That sounded harsh. I mean, have a good life.” I shake my head.
“Ok, well, that’s worse.” I can’t make sense of how to say goodbye to someone I can’t stop thinking about but who I hope I never see again.
It comes down to this: I need a fresh start more than I need Teddy.
He’s just out of grasp from where I’m leaning against the front gate. We’re silent for a full minute, his eyes reaching for mine, which I fix on a lamppost across the street. “Why can’t it just be ‘see you soon’?” His voice is low but clear. A little pleading.
The question tugs at some small part of me, threatening to undo everything that got me here. He reaches for my hands, which are shaking and sweaty. Dead giveaways of why we can’t.
“I—I’m sorry, Teddy. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
He laughs. “It’s New York. We’ll be a few miles away. Let’s just see, OK? Friends?”
I let him take my palms, and I’m keenly aware of the electricity pulsing between us. “Maybe we’re meant to be old friends who lost touch.”