Day 23
Him
“What are you writing there?”
She lifts her head from her journal. The greenery around us is slowly dwindling as we get closer to the city; more and more sunlight pours on us as a result, and it makes her look a little more lively, her paleness reddening to a soft blush.
“What do you think?” She waves the notebook. “I’m documenting where we’re going.”
“Huh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I really shouldn’t be enjoying her irritation as much as I am. “That’s actually kinda smart.” I shrug. “I’m impressed.”
“Wow, thank you.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not spray tagging buildings, but I figured it could help to keep a record of everything.”
“So does that mean that I can read it, then?” I ask, already knowing what the answer will be.
“Over my dead body,” she deadpans.
“Dear diary,” I start. “I met the cutest boy in the world today, oh em gee—”
“You’re currently the only boy in the world.”
That shuts me up.
“It’s nothing that’ll interest you, anyway,” she says after a minute or two of scribbling. “It’s mostly our route. ‘Day 23, Fort Worth. Still no people.’ That kind of stuff.”
I know she’s just trying to appease my curiosity so I won’t insist any further, but I let it go for now, mostly to get her defenses down.
She gets all moody and quiet when she’s angry, and maybe it’s the Texas sun or the open road—or the open roof of the convertible we moved to—but I crave a sense of normalcy with her.
Not that I won’t cave and tease her again in the next… five minutes, probably, but riling her up isn’t the same as actual anger.
“We’re not in Fort Worth yet,” I observe. “You should be more optimistic.”
“I will be when we find something to be optimistic about.” It’s more of a sigh than a snappy reply, and even though I want to contradict her, I don’t really know how.
Instead, I change the subject. “You been on a road trip this long before?”
She snorts. “How do I answer that without you getting to know me?”
“Just wondering how you’re holding up.” I glance at her. “If you fling yourself out of the car again, I’m not chasing you.”
“I’m good.” She lifts her feet to rest on the dashboard. “I can drive, if you want.”
“I’m good, too.” I hit the gas a little harder, as if to accentuate my words, and it earns me a glare. “Before… all of this, I didn’t have an opportunity to drive for a while.” It’s just enough to keep the conversation going, without giving too much away. “I’m enjoying it.”
“At least one of us is. Can you chill with the speed, please? No one’s chasing us.”
I reluctantly lay off the gas.
“My parents live in Vermont,” she says after a while. “And I moved to… a few states down, so I’ve done the drive a few times.” She crosses her arms. “Not trying to overshare, by the way. Just saying that I’m more than capable of driving for a few hours if you need a break.”
“I’ll get a break when we stop for the night,” I reply, almost adding thank you before I catch myself.
“You’re barely sleeping at night,” she says pointedly.
“How do you know?” I narrow my eyes. “Are you watching me sleep, you creep?”
“You’re awake when I fall asleep and still awake when I get up. When I got up to pee, you were just lying there, staring at the ceiling.”
“What? When?”
“Um, last night?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Maybe you were dreaming with your eyes open, I don’t know.” I spot her shrug from the corner of my eye. “Either way, you’re not sleeping, and I can tell because you look like shit.”
“Ugh, woman.” I clutch my chest. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“Still not sure if you have one,” she shoots back. “And your ego could definitely use a reality check.”
I almost laugh. I was right when I met her; she’s feisty. I like it.
“We can switch after we get to the city,” I concede after a while. “I’ll take the back seat and sleep for a bit.”
“Great,” she mutters, opening her journal again.
“Though with how you drive, I’ll wake up five hours later and find out we didn’t move a single mile.”
“Funny.” She yawns, leaning back in her seat. “Seriously. Hilarious.”
“It’s out of the way, but maybe we can head there at some point,” I say that night as we settle in for bed.
The girl—woman, whatever—throws me a questioning look. “Oklahoma City? It’s only like, three hours away.”
We mulled around in Fort Worth for most of the day, driving through the empty, silent streets.
Other than the occasional yowl of a stray cat that I could have sworn I heard, there was no movement, no sound.
No sign of life. We stocked up on some necessities as we went; snacks, drinks, a few vegetables that still looked good enough to eat.
She did her best fixing the weird array of our selection into a dinner, using only a small corner in the giant hotel kitchen. The food wasn’t half bad, all things considered.
My companion had cleverly pointed out we can’t always rely on finding things, so we should start carrying some kind of cooler with us. Admittedly, it would be nice to have at least a few days’ worth of food that’s not canned. We’ll raid a camping equipment store tomorrow.
I shake my head. I’m in a bed a few feet away from her own; thank god, because I really don’t want to subject myself to the mercy of another couch. “No, not Oklahoma City.” I keep my gaze at the ceiling. “I meant Vermont.”
She’s silent for a long while. “I don’t know if I want to,” she admits at last, and in the dark, her words somehow feel even smaller. Full of regret. “I feel like getting there and… finding them gone—” She halts, clearing her throat. “I mean, maybe it’s for the best if we don’t.”
“I understand,” I say casually, although I don’t. Not really. I don’t have parents to lose—not ones I haven’t lost already.
“And it’s the wrong direction, anyway. So.”
“It’s not like we have anything better to do.” I shrug. “After we cover this area and head east, it only makes sense to make our way up the coast again. It might take a while, but it’s doable.”
No reply.
“But only if you want to,” I add, suddenly feeling awkward. I don’t mean to talk this much, but without being able to have a normal conversation—there’s no way I’m going to ask her what her family is like—everything we speak of feels like it needs to be stretched out, utilized to fill the quiet.
“Yeah,” she speaks slowly, her voice choked. “Thank you.”
She doesn’t suggest we visit my family, which I appreciate.
“And, um…” she trails off, and I can almost hear it, the sound of my name in her mouth, if she would have known it. “Good night. Try get some sleep, okay?”
“I’ll try.” I close my eyes, shaking off the gentleness of her words. I don’t know why her being soft with me scares me so much. “Good night.”