CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE SABRINA
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SAbrINA
We’re back on the road, but this time, everything feels different.
I’ve never told anyone about my parents’ split.
When it happened, everyone who mattered already knew.
Then, as I got older, it felt a little too trite to bring up parental divorce as a source of trauma.
It also didn’t feel like the actual root of the pain.
If the issue was them splitting up, that wouldn’t be as hard as what I struggled with as a teenage girl.
I love my dad, I really do.
But the phase when I figured out he was just some man…it hit way harder than most.
It’s early morning as we fly down the highway.
I’ve been checking my phone to watch the truck move on the map, realizing he’s taking the longest route he can possibly take to get to Nashville.
Right now, we’re heading directly west, which will put us in Utah soon.
That makes me smile when it sinks in. I wonder if it’s because he knows I’ve never had a chance to go outside Wyoming, or if he wants to spend more time with me. I’ll take either reason.
The road is long and straight, with dusty landscape on either side.
We come upon a coffee stand outside a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town.
Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to stop at the restaurant we ordered from last night, so we’re both starving.
He pulls off alongside a van painted in neon colors and an enormous camper.
“God, it’s hot here,” I say, wiping my hair off my neck.
“Why don’t you put on that little yellow thing again?” He swings out of the truck, dropping in a puff of dust.
I clamber out. “Are you talking about my bikini?”
“Yeah, I sure am.” He pushes his sunglasses up and takes out his wallet as we go up to the window.
It slides open to reveal a man and woman in their early twenties. The second the guy sticks his head through with notepad in hand, I know he recognizes Coen. His eyes widen and he shakes his hair out of his eyes for a closer look.
“Holy shee-it,” he says. “Coen Taylor?”
The strangest thing happens. It’s like Coen puts a mask up and slips into someone else’s skin. He shakes the kid’s hand, smiling.
“Hey, man,” he says.
“Holy shit. I saw you in Cali,” the kid says. “Hey, Kelly, get over here. It’s Coen Taylor!”
The girl cracks her blonde head through the window and pops her gum. “Can we get a picture?”
Coen nods, saying of course they can. Luckily, there’s nobody but us in line, because both the cashiers come out and want a photo together and separately.
Then, they make him sign a napkin for everyone in their crew.
I’m quiet, watching him work and wondering if this split in who he is and who he presents to the world is part of the reason for his burnout.
I don’t think I could handle having to play the part of a different person like that.
“Alright,” the guy says. “Sorry, what can I get you both?”
I smile. “Can I just get an iced coffee?”
“I’ll do a black coffee, hot,” Coen says, taking out a twenty.
“Nah, man. It’s on the house.”
Coen doesn’t fight it, but he puts the twenty into the tip jar.
A car pulls up, and a family climbs out, saving us from standing by the window.
We sidle out of the way. Coen with his eyes on the ground.
When the guy hands our drinks out through the side window, he thanks Coen for being so relaxed and willing to take photos.
They go back and forth with small talk, then shake hands.
“Alright,” Coen says. “Let’s hit the road, cowgirl.”
I smile, tickled from my head to my feet, and follow him back to the truck. He digs around in the back while I get settled and comes back with a handful of granola bars and fruit snacks, stacking them in the console.
We pull out and get back on the endless strip of road. I reach behind him, unzip my bag, and pull my bikini top out. Before he has a chance to glance over, I pull my shirt off and unclasp my bra. He does a double-take.
“Hello,” he says, swerving slightly.
“What? You wanted me in a bikini,” I say innocently.
I tie the string between my boobs. He’s having problems keeping his eyes ahead.
“Goddamn,” he says. “Every time I see your tits, it’s like the first time.”
Pleased, I grab my coffee and settle back.
“You handled that well back there,” I say lightly.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I always feel like I don’t.”
“Really? They seemed thrilled.”
He thinks. He’s got this way of flexing his jaw when he’s deep in thought that I’ve come to realize has to do with why he was in Wyoming in the first place.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
“You know,” I say contemplatively, “it might help you with everything if you’d talk about it more. I feel better after our conversation last night.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, but you got real problems. I got champagne problems.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “You can still talk.”
He shrugs, reaching for his coffee. “Maybe. Let me think about it.”
That means he won’t bring it up again, but I’m not giving up that easily.
What he needs is some alone time to bring down those walls the way it did for me.
I set my coffee down and open the bag, digging through until I find a pack of sour candy strings.
I peel all the raspberry ones out and bite down, sugar crunching. He glances sideways.
“Give me one,” he says.
I do, and our fingers brush. Heat, like the brewing of an electric storm, moves through my arm.
Today, I’m less afraid of how this ends.
We’re both quiet for the next few hours.
He plays through his music, then switches to mine.
Honestly, there’s not a big difference, except I have a lot more pop on mine.
For lunch, we find a taco stand and eat parked beneath a tree.
I check my phone now and then, but mostly, I’ve been locking it in the glove box.
After last night, I don’t have the bandwidth to argue with Dad right now.
Talking about it with Coen resurfaced a lot of forgotten anger.
I just need a minute.
“You good to keep driving?” he asks when we’re done.
“Yeah, I guess.”
There must be something in my voice, maybe I sound a little tired, because he considers me.
“What about we find somewhere to spend the night and call it a day?” he says.
Surprised, I study him. “Why? You trying to get me into bed again?” I tease.
“Maybe.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just…not ready to be home.”
His voice dips, rough and tired.
“Yeah,” I say decisively. “Let’s find somewhere really different.”
“Like where?”
He navigates onto the road. I dig in the glove box and take my phone out. Thankfully, nobody has texted me.
“I read online about this clown hotel,” I say. “Maybe someplace cool like that.”
“Absolutely not.”
Grinning, I shift in my seat to face him and lean against the door. In a fit of daring, I slide my bare feet across the seat. He doesn’t blink. He just slides his hand up my leg and cradles my calf.
Oh God, I think I’m wet just from that.
“What? You don’t like clowns?”
“Do you like clowns?”
“I like scary movies, but maybe staying in a clown-themed motel is a bit far.” I shrug, swiping my phone and going to the maps app. “I’m willing to bend on that idea a little bit.”
He laughs. It’s hard to focus on the screen when his fingers are trailing over my bare skin, but I manage to search for hotels and motels.
About an hour and a half away, there’s a vintage-style motel with a theme park attached.
That’s different, but I’m willing to give different a try.
After all, isn’t that the whole point of road tripping? Trying new things?
“I found this place,” I say.
“What’s it called?”
“The Big Bayside Beach Boutique.”
He laughs, and I do too, but I’m being dead serious. “Wait, what?”
“That’s what it says.” I flip the phone around to show him.
“That place looks like a hoot.”
“Can we do it?”
He runs his hand up to my knee, gripping it gently. “Sure, baby, let’s do it.”
I sit and turn the music up a little higher as we speed down the almost empty highway.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to have a man, not a hookup or someone who makes me cry over their texts.
A real man, like him. That’s a visual I turn over in my head until he clears his throat and lifts his hand to point.
“I think that might be it.”
Struggling upright, I get back in my seat.
Up ahead, in the late afternoon sun and heat shimmers, I catch sight of three long motel buildings appearing from the cacti.
The closer we get, the more I can make out—and I’m thrilled to see an enormous pool surrounded by striped beach chairs.
We crest the hill, and there it is, bigger than I imagined.
The office is painted pink and white striped, and the window hangs wide open, a woman with blonde hair piled on her head hanging out to chat with a tatted up guy on a motorbike.
He’s flirting hard, but I can tell by how she’s popping her gum that she’s less than impressed.
“Well,” Coen says, cutting the engine, “this is exactly what I thought it would be from the name.”
I glance over the parking lot littered with cars. “It looks like this is the place to be,” I say. “At least at four-thirty on a weekday afternoon. In the middle of the desert.”
He jerks his head, getting out. I follow him around the truck.
The motorcycle man sees us coming and revs his engine, skirting out of the way so Coen and I can take his place.
The woman behind the counter is around Coen’s age, and she’s got a hardened look to her, like she’s worked here a while.
She also reminds me a little of Pamela Anderson, which I love.
It fits the whole vibe. Her name tag says Lula.
“Hey, cowboy,” she says. “And cowgirl. What can I do you for?”
“We’d like a room for tonight,” Coen says, taking out his wallet.
He removes his ID, and I catch a glimpse of it for the first time.
It never occurred to me until now that his real name might not be Coen, but it looks like his name is actually Neil Coen Taylor.
I can’t really see him being named Neil, so it makes sense he’d pick something a little more unusual.
“You’re in luck,” she says, tapping on the computer just inside the window. “We had someone leave early, so our biggest suite is open. You want it? It’s right by the pool.”
I open my mouth to say we don’t need anything fancy, but Coen hands over his card.
“Sure thing,” Coen says. “I think the missus wanted to go swimming.”
I freeze, shooting him a sharp glance. He pushes his sunglasses down just enough to give me a look right back. Part of me wants to argue with him about calling me that, but part of me is kicking my feet. Even though…it doesn’t mean anything.
It really doesn’t.
“Alright,” Lula sings out, spinning a bright pink keychain with a flamingo on it in a loop and dropping it in Coen’s hand. “It’s straight through the gate, walk around the pool to the left, and it’ll be the furthest door. Number is on the keychain.”
He thanks her, and she disappears back into the office, window swinging shut, likely trying to dodge the motorcycle man. I put my hand on my hip and look him up and down.
“Missus?”
He shrugs. “That’s what I told Larry, though not on purpose. It kinda sticks.”
“Who is Larry?”
“The older gentleman who helped me catch the fish when we were camping.”
He jumps down from the curb and goes to haul our bags from the back seat, slinging them over his shoulder.
Then, he flashes a smile and winks at me, and I see the movement faintly behind his shades.
For a second, I see a little bit of the man who was shaking hands and signing napkins at the cafe.
Is that bad? Or is that progress? Because when he showed up at the ranch, he was depleted.
I follow him through the gate.
It didn’t hit me until right now that he’s changing a little bit.
It hasn’t been all that long since we met, but, Lord, he was so serious, so closed up, when he stepped out of that truck in our driveway.
He’s a long, long way off from being carefree, but I’ve noticed the lines of his body have relaxed.
The way he talks is a little bit different.
Instead of everything sitting in his chest, he’s got a nice little drawl that sounds like he picked it up in Tennessee.
And he’s teasing me. I never imagined he’d like teasing me when we met.
I like it, maybe too much.
He circles the pool, me at his heels. This motel looks like something out of the seventies in the best way.
It’s also pretty packed, but not uncomfortably so.
There’s a family in the shallow end, two women beneath striped umbrellas, a handful of guys who look like blue collar workers, another family sitting on their porch.
Judging by the number of cars, there has to be more.
It’s got a nice, homey, but not overcrowded feel to it.
“I like this,” I say, pausing while Coen unlocks the far door.
It’s bright pink inside, like Pepto-Bismol pink.
I gasp, and Coen smiles, stepping aside to let me in first. Over the bed is a huge painting of palm trees out in Hollywood.
It smells faintly like vanilla, and everything is lit by a pair of lamps in the shape of bikini -clad women holding cocktail glasses.
They cast a warm glow over the shag carpet.
“Well, this is new,” says Coen.
I sink onto the edge of the bed. “What? Can’t get in the mood in a bubblegum pink room.”
He drops the bags by the door and kicks it shut with his boot.
“I’m pretty sure I won't have a problem with it.”