27. Parker
27
PARKER
I look down at the clock of our rented minivan–the only car available at such short notice—which reads 12:30. The numbers look cloudy, and the drive is finally weighing down on me. According to the maps, we’re only a little over an hour away from the hotel, and I thank any and all deities that this is almost over.
We stopped at a gas station a few hours ago to use the restroom, and I indulged in some cheap, sickeningly sweet coffee in hopes that it would help keep me up, but the effects of the caffeine weren’t as potent as I was hoping, and I’m fading fast. I lean over the steering wheel, stretching out my lower back, which is now cramping up. It does little to alleviate me from the pain, but it’s better than nothing.
I’d love to blast music to help keep me awake while we drive down the nearly empty highway, but I keep it at a low hum so I don’t disturb Dylan, who’s been sleeping in the passenger seat for the past half an hour. After her anxiety attack this morning at the airport, I want her to get all of the rest she can get.
I did allow her to drive this morning because I knew if I put up too much of a fight, we were never going to get anywhere. We’re both too stubborn for our own good, and my number one priority was getting us there in one piece–even if it meant reluctantly letting her shoulder some of the burden of driving. I’d rather her drive during the daytime than fight off sleep this late at night, anyway.
The passing towns, which are few and far between, fill the car with a soft glow, and I take advantage of the light to cast glances at Dylan. I’ve always found her magnificent, but there’s something about watching her serenely sleep after such a difficult day. Seeing her find enough peace to shut her mind off, even if it’s just for a short stint.
Throughout college, Dylan was always the strong one in our relationship. Although my parents separated at a fairly young age, the repercussions of their divorce took a toll on me far more than I’d ever imagined. I was on the receiving end of countless calls from my mom, trying to coerce me into having a relationship with my stepfather after years of failure. She’d beg me to come home when I didn’t have class, and although the guilt ate me alive, I couldn’t bring myself to visit.
I tried to play my part in the “big, happy family” image she painted to the outside world as a teenager. But the constant comparison to my step-siblings from him was more than I could manage. Once I left for college, I felt like I could catch my breath. I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
Unsurprisingly, the phone calls with my mom always ended in fights, and I struggled to cope with the never-ending quarreling. Eventually, we stopped speaking altogether. She was tired of me not fitting into the mold that she had made, and I was tired of feeling like I wasn’t good enough even though I had so much going for myself.
That’s when Dylan became my safe space.
It wasn’t until James passed away that she became the one that grappled with anxiety. I remember the first time she had a breakdown like it was yesterday. My fighter had become so troubled right before my eyes, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I knew from then on that I was going to do everything I could to ease the pain I knew she was feeling.
I’ve never told her this, but after her first episode, I went to our college library and began researching what to do to help ease anxiety attacks. I spent hours reading and scouring the internet to find anything and everything I could to help. It was at that moment that I knew I needed to become the strong one for us.
Even though I had to swallow my own pain, I don’t regret a thing. Being there for Dylan in any capacity made me feel like I had a purpose in life. I was no longer the man who wouldn’t live up to my parent’s high expectations. I was the man who would do anything to see the love of his life thrive.
The minute I saw her fall to pieces at the airport, I was taken back to the days she broke down in my arms. It served as a reminder that, even in all of those years apart, she still struggles. It made me feel hopeless–like I had abandoned her all those years ago. All I wanted to do was pull her into my arms and comfort her the way I used to.
Of course, I just had to let the old nickname slip. I caught the way her eyes flared when I said it. It wasn’t intentional—just an old habit. I had been so careful not to use it since she’s come back into my life, but now that it was out there, it felt so damn good. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like I was born with the sole purpose to utter the name.
As strong as I pretended to be through the entire thing, I wasn’t secure enough to hear her response, so I kept speaking so she couldn’t get a word in. It’s easier for me to act like nothing happened than to hear her tell me she never wants to hear that nickname again. We’ve both admitted that we’re still in love with one another, but I can’t dive off the deep end right away. I need to have some semblance of patience, which is proving to be much easier said than done.
I look at her again, and her eyelashes flutter slightly as she sleeps, and I wonder what she’s dreaming about. A small part of me hopes it’s about us—the possibility of a future for us together.
Does she think about me the way I think about her? I don’t have the courage to admit it, but she consumes my every waking thought, and I never want it to stop. I let the thought devour me as the quiet beat of Harvest Moon (which has been playing on repeat since the minute I knew she was asleep) acts as the background soundtrack of my pathetic hopes and wishes.
We have a few more days left of this tour, and I’m eagerly awaiting the day when I can make her mine again–for good this time. I already know exactly how I’m going to ask her to be my girlfriend again. Fuck, even the term girlfriend doesn’t seem like enough. I want more. I want it all. Marriage. Babies. Traveling the world together. Sunday morning coffee dates. Game nights. Trips to the neighborhood wine bar. I want everything I can get with her.
I never thought I’d get the chance to ask her to be mine again, but I always dreamed of it anyway in case life threw me a bone. I guess some of my hopes and dreams weren’t too pitiful.
I keep my eyes on the road as I reach over and softly tuck a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. It’s purely selfish, allowing me to see the radiance of her pale skin while she sleeps.
I don’t realize how far my mind has wandered until we turn into the hotel parking lot in what feels like a split second, and Dylan shifts, slowly blinking the sleep out of her eyes as she comes to.
“Are we here?” Her voice is raspy, and I hate how my body responds. I shift in my seat, begging my dick to stand down until I can make it to my room. I’m exhausted, but I’m also restless and in need of a release before I can fall asleep. That’s been the case every single night of this tour. Little does Dylan know, thanks to the paper-thin walls of the low-cost hotels we’ve been crashing at, I can hear her also chasing her release every night. My self-discipline is virtually non-existent.
I pull the car up near the lobby and put it into park.
“Yeah. Have a nice nap?”
She stretches, reaching her arms out to touch the roof of the car. Her shirt slides up her body, and I force myself to look out the window to avoid getting a hard-on. Just a little longer.
One week , I remind myself. Only one more week until I can act on my feelings. My patience is wearing thin.