The Anatomy of a road trip.

Short Story published on hooray collective.

“We’re almost there,” he says.

I watch as he flicks the ash from his forty-seventh cigarette.  Two flicks.  Flick.  Flick.  I’ve been counting.  I’ve counted cigarettes, flicks, cacti, beats of my heart, regrets.  I’ve counted everything except the miles.

The repetitive desert scenery plays tricks on my mind. I lose count easily in the monotony, so I switch to the down beats as his hand automatically taps out the radio’s drum solo. Better.

It doesn’t matter where we’re going, but I’m glad we’re almost there. The sun beats down through the dirty windshield of the old truck, burning my bare legs through the glass, making me sticky and impatient.

Flick. Flick.

“That’s good,” I say. I haven’t spoken in nineteen minutes. He hasn’t noticed.

He nods; his expression is inscrutable behind dark sunglasses. “Yeah.”

I try to match him mood for mood, because it is usually easier. His mood today is quiet, so I am quiet. I like him best like this, quiet but not sullen. Today he is quiet and sweet. He likes when we take road trips because he can chain smoke and eat at Denny’s.  I like when we take road trips because I get him all to myself until we get out of the car.

If I had my way, every day would be summer, and we would live on the road. I could make him happier on the road, I think, because life wouldn’t get in the way. We would make our own rules on our own time, no pressure.

Flick. Flick.

He looks over at me with a half smile. Lifting his hand from the steering wheel, he reaches across the seats. My traitor heart skips, like always, anticipating his touch. One callused fingertip brushes over my shoulder.

“You’re getting really tan,” he smiles for real.

I rub over the goose bumps on my thighs. The part of me that wants to grin and squirm like a puppy is at war with the part that knows no sudden movements are best.

Flick. Flick.

I see our exit approaching. Today we’re in a small Arizona town whose name I won’t remember tomorrow. Two more days and we’ll be on our way home. Two more days and then back to reality. But tonight, tonight is for chasing the dream.

Tonight there will be rounds of drinks, ticket stubs, broken guitar strings. Tonight the insufferable Arizona heat will turn this tiny bar into a sweat lodge while the lights pulse overhead and the cranky air conditioner refuses to cooperate. Tonight we will make new friends, mistakes, and hopefully a little money.

The sun is low in the sky when we pull into the parking lot of the club. Behind us comes the beat up old sedan containing the lead singer, bass player, and miscellaneous others. The band will sit at the bar doing shots while I watch the clouds change color.

Flick. Flick.

I reach for the passenger door handle reluctantly.

“Wait,” he says.

The other boys are waiting for us, cigarettes in one hand, to-go coffee cups in the other. They glance over, curiously, wondering why we’re still sitting in the truck. I’m unsure as well.

“Let’s stay here tonight. Just me and you. We can get a room; meet up with everyone else tomorrow. Plenty of time. We have to go home soon.” His sunglasses come off, and I look into his eyes.

Summer is coming to an end, and we both know it. Next week means back to school, back to the daily grind, back to searching for a reason to get out of bed in the morning and ways to make ends meet. He is not ready. Neither am I.

I count my heartbeats while he looks at me. Seventeen.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course.  Just me and you.” Always, I want to add. I can’t stop thinking in clichés. My heart thuds. Twenty-one, twenty-two.

“Cool.” He looks relieved.

I am surprised. It’s been two years. Was there ever any doubt? Didn’t he hear my heart beating? I can’t hear anything but.

“You’re going to be great tonight,” I say. Every night.

He shrugs. “Hope so.” He lights another cigarette. Forty-nine. “Let’s go.”

I slide out of the truck, the backs of my legs sticking to the seat, making my exit anything but graceful. He’s already halfway to the other car, calling out a greeting to the rest of the band.

Flick. Flick.

My traitor heart thuds loudly. I follow him, and resume my counting. Four hours until we’re alone again.