She nods and says with a fun and eager air, “Well, then what are we waiting for?”
We walk back out into the hall and just before we start to head down the stairs, I stop.
“Wait one second.”
She waits there at the top of the stairs and I turn back, passing my bedroom and head toward Aidan’s. His room is as pathetic as mine. I see his acoustic guitar sitting propped against the far wall and I walk over and grab it by the neck and carry it out.
“You play guitar?” Camryn asks as I lead her down the stairs.
“Yeah, I play some.”
Andrew chucks his bag in the backseat with his smaller bag and mine and my purse. He’s a little more careful with the guitar, though, laying it neatly across the seat. We hop inside the vintage black car (with two white racing stripes down the center of the hood) and shut our doors at the same time.
He looks over at me.
I look over at him.
He thrusts the key in the ignition and the Chevelle roars to life.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m not afraid or worried or feel like I should stop this right now and just go home. Everything about it feels right; for the first time in a very long time, I feel like my life is back on track again, except on a very different sort of road, one in which I have no idea where it’s going. I can’t explain it … except that, well, like I said: it feels right.
Andrew punches the gas once we hit the entrance ramp and get on 87 going south.
I kind of like watching him drive, how he’s so casual even when he speeds past a few slow drivers. It doesn’t look like he’s trying to show off as he’s weaving between cars; it just looks like second-nature to him. I catch myself getting a glimpse every now and then of his muscled right arm as his hand grips the steering wheel. And as my eyes carefully scan the rest of him, I go right back to wondering about that tattoo hidden underneath that navy t-shirt which fits him so well.
We talk about whatever for a while; about that guitar being Aidan’s and that Aidan will probably blow up if he finds out that Andrew took it. Andrew doesn’t care. “He stole my socks once,” Andrew said.
“Your socks?” I said back with a rather screwed-up expression. And he looked over at me with an expression that read: hey; socks, guitars, deodorant—a possession is a possession.
I just laughed, still finding it ridiculous, but easily letting him slide.
We also got into a really deep conversation about the mystery of the single shoes that lie on the side of the freeways all across the United States.
“Girlfriend got pissed and tossed her boyfriend’s shit out the window,” Andrew had said.
“Yeah, that’s a possibility,” I said, “but I think a lot of them belong to hitchhikers, because most of them are raggedy.”
He glanced over at me awkwardly, as if waiting for the rest.
“Hitchhikers?”
I nodded, “Well yeah, they do a lot of walking so I imagine their shoes get worn out fast. They’re walking along, their feet are hurting and they see a shoe—probably one of those tossed out by that angry girlfriend—” I point at him to include his theory “—and seeing that it’s in better shape than the ones on his feet, he trades one out.”
“That’s stupid,” Andrew said.
My mouth parted with a spat of offended air. “It could happen!” I laughed and reached over and smacked him on the arm. He just smiled at me.
And we went on and on about it, each of us coming up with an even stupider theory than the one before.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much.
We finally make it back into Denver nearly two hours later. It’s such a beautiful city with the vast mountains in the background that look like white clouds at their peaks, sprawled across the bright blue horizon. It’s still pretty early in the day and the sun is shining full-force.
When we make it into the heart of the city, Andrew slows the car to a forty-mile-per-hour crawl.
“You have to tell me which way,” he says as we coast toward another entrance ramp.
He looks in three directions and then over at me.
Caught off-guard, my eyes dart around at each route and the closer we get to having to make a decision on which way to turn, the slower he drives.
Thirty-five miles per hour.
“What’s it gonna be?” he asks with sparkling bright green eyes flecked by a little bit of taunt.
I’m so nervous! I feel like I’m being asked to choose which wire to cut to diffuse a bomb.
“I don’t know!” I shout, but my lips are smiling wide and nervously.
Twenty miles per hour. People are honking at us and one guy in a red car zooms past and flips us off.
Fifteen miles per hour.
Ahhh! I can’t stand the anticipation! I feel like I want to burst out laughing, but it’s being held captive in my throat.
Honk! Honk! Fuck you! Move out of the way asshole!
It all just rolls off Andrew’s back and he never stops smiling.
“That way!” I finally yell, throwing my hand up and pointing to the east ramp. I squeal out laughter and slide my back down further against the seat so that no one else can see me, I’m so embarrassed.
Andrew flips his left blinker on and slides over into the left lane with ease, in between two other cars. We make it through the yellow light just before it turns red and in seconds we’re on another freeway and Andrew is pressing on the gas. I have no idea which direction we’re traveling, only that we’re going east, but where it leads exactly is still up in the air.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he says, glancing over at me with a grin.
“Kind of exhilarating,” I say and then let out a sharp laugh. “You really pissed those people off.”
He brushes it off with a shrug. “Everybody’s in too much of a hurry. God forbid you drive the speed limit or you might get lynched.”
“So true,” I say and look out ahead through the windshield. “Though I have to come clean—I’m usually one of them.” I wince admitting it.
“Yeah, me too sometimes.”
Everything gets quiet all of a sudden and it becomes the first quiet moment that the both of us notice. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing, wondering about me and wanting to ask, just as I’m curious about so much when it comes to him. It’s one of those moments that are inevitable and almost always open the door to the stage where two people really start to get to know each other.
It’s very different from when we were on the bus together. We thought that our time was limited then and if we were never going to see each other again, there was no reason to get all personal.
But things have changed and personal is all that’s left.
“Tell me more about your best friend, Natalie.”
I keep my eyes on the road for several long seconds and I’m slow to answer because I’m not sure which part of her I should tell.
“If she’s even still your best friend,” he adds, sensing the animosity somehow.
I look over.
“Not anymore. She’s sort of whipped, for lack of a better explanation.”
“I’m