“Where are we anyway?” I ask, gazing out the large window next to Camryn, searching for any freeway signs.
“About four hours away from Denver,” she answers. “Driver just announced another rest stop in ten minutes.”
“Good,” I say, stretching one leg out into the aisle, “I need to walk around. I’m stiff as hell.”
I catch her grinning, but she turns to face the window. Stiff as hell. OK, so she also has a dirty mind. I just laugh thinking about it.
The next rest stop isn’t too much different from the last several, with a series of gas stations on either side of the freeway and two fast food restaurants. I can’t believe this girl has me actually debating whether or not to head inside one like I normally would without a thought otherwise. I just can’t really tell if it’s because I want to prove to her that I can choose to eat better stuff if given the choice, or because I know she’s going to yell at me.
Wait a damn second. Who’s the one in control of the situation here?
Clearly she is. Goddammit.
We file out of the bus, Camryn in front of me, and after walking around the front of the bus she stops and turns at the waist, crossing her arms and looking up at me, pursing her lips.
“Well, if you’re so smart,” I say, sounding sort of third grade and I admit it, “then see if you can find something healthy to eat—that doesn’t taste like rubber dipped in shit—in one of these places.”
A grin tugs one corner of her mouth.
“You’re on,” she accepts the challenge.
I follow her into the gigantic convenience store and she makes her way first to the drink coolers. Like that blonde chick on that game show (I don’t know which because I don’t watch game shows, but everybody knows about that blonde chick), Camryn waves her hands in front of the cooler doors, as if revealing the world of fruit juices and bottled water to me for the first time.
“We start off with a variety of juice, as you can see,” she says in her proper showcase voice. “Any of this is better than soda. Take your pick.”
“I hate juice.”
“Don’t be a baby. There’s plenty to choose from. I’m sure you can find something you can stomach.”
She moves back two steps to let me see the dozens of flavored bottled waters on display behind the next door.
“And there’s water,” she says, “but I just don’t see someone like you sipping on a fancy bottle of water.”
“No, that’s too douchy.” Really, I have no issue with drinking bottled water, but I like this game we’re playing.
She smiles, but tries to keep a straight face.
I wrinkle my nose at her, purse my lips and look back and forth between her and the juice cooler.
I sigh heavily and step up closer, scanning over the different brands and flavors and mixed flavors and I wonder why there’s so much with strawberry or kiwi, or strawberry and kiwi in it. I hate both.
Finally, I open one glass door and settle on plain OJ.
She sort of winces.
“What?” I ask, still holding the door open.
“Orange juice isn’t so good to wash stuff down with.”
I let out a spat of air and just look at her, unblinking.
“I pick something out and you tell me it’s not good enough.” I want to laugh, but I’m trying to lay a guilt trip on her here.
And I think it’s working.
She frowns. “Well, it’s just … well that’s more of a grab-n-go vitamin C boost, really. It just makes you thirstier.”
She actually looks as though she’s worried that she offended me and this strikes me in the strangest way. I let myself smile just to see her smile again.
She grins at me like the Devil.
Oh, she’s good …
Denver finally flies by and we’re drawing closer to Andrew’s final stop in Wyoming. I can’t lie and say it doesn’t bother me. Andrew was right in saying that it’s dangerous for me to be traveling alone. I’m just trying to understand why that fact didn’t faze me much before I met him. Maybe I just feel safer with him as my company because he does look like he can bust a few jaws without breaking a sweat. Damn, maybe I shouldn’t have ever talked to him in the first place; definitely shouldn’t have let him sit next to me because now I’m sort of used to him. Once we’re in Wyoming and we go our separate ways, I’ll be back to staring out the window watching the world fly by and not knowing where in it I’m going next.
“So, do you have a girlfriend?” I ask just to spark up conversation so I won’t think about being alone again in a few hours.
Andrew’s dimples appear. “Why do you want to know?”
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t flatter yourself; just a question. If you don’t—”
“No,” he answers, “I’m happily single.”
He just looks at me, smiling, waiting, and it takes me a second to understand what he’s waiting for.
I point at myself nervously, wishing I had come up with a less personal topic. “Me? No, not anymore.” Feeling more confident now, I add, “I’m happily single as well and want to stay that way. For about … forever.” I should’ve just left it at ‘happily single’ instead of rambling my way right out of the confident zone and making myself look obvious.
Of course, Andrew notices right away. I get the feeling he’s the type that never misses someone else’s foot-in-your-mouth moment. He thrives on them.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, grinning.
Thankfully he doesn’t probe.
He rests his head back against the seat and absently taps his thumbs and pinky fingers against his jeans for a moment. Secretly, I glimpse his muscular, tanned arms and try to see once and for all what the tattoos are of on his arms, but as usual they’re mostly hidden by the sleeves of his t-shirt. The one on the right side I saw a little more of earlier when he stretched down to tie his boot. I think it’s a tree of some sort. The arm facing me now, I can’t really tell but whatever it is, it has feathers. All of the tattoos I’ve seen so far are colorless.
“Curious?” he says and I flinch. I didn’t think he saw me checking them out.
“I guess.”
Yes, I’m very curious, actually.
Andrew lifts away from the seat and pulls the sleeve of his left arm over the tattoo, revealing a phoenix with a long, flowing beautiful feathered tail that ends a couple of inches past where his sleeve ends. But the rest of its feathered body is skeletal, giving it a more ‘manly’ appearance.
“That’s pretty awesome.”
“Thanks. I’ve had this one about a year,” he says, pulling the sleeve back down. “And this one,” he says, turning at the waist and pulling up the other sleeve (first, I notice the obvious outline of his abs underneath his shirt), “is my gnarly, Sleepy-Hollow-lookin’ tree—I have a thing for wicked trees—and if you’ll look real close …” I peer closer where his finger points within the tree trunk, “is my 1969 Chevy Camaro. My dad’s car, really, but since he’s dying I guess I have to keep it.” He looks out in front