Road trip
It only took one moment..
“No way, you don’t like mustard?” she laughs, while I wrinkle my nose in what I hope comes out as elegant distaste.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. No, I just look like a pig.
Abandoning that effort, I speak huffily instead. “It tastes like someone ground pepper up and added some sparklers into it.” My thinly disguised pettiness only makes her laugh harder.
Frowning in mock annoyance, I hide a grin of my own, an automatic response to her contagious cackles, and look at the dashboard clock. I was surprised to see four hours had passed. Four hours into our trip.
Despite how good we were at being roommates, and sharing the same house, a part of me had dreaded this trip with her. I had expected the conversation to die out in an hour, and for the rest of the three-day trip to pass in ever more stifling silence.
I look at the girl next to me on the passenger seat, still cackling her head off.
“You’re fake laughing now.”
“I am not!”
“Even mustard isn’t that funny.”
“It’s not the mustard I was laughing at,” she clarifies between giggles. “It was the look on your face when you ate that hotdog!”
My now mortified expression sends her into another round of hysterics.
I roll my eyes and meticulously focus on the long stretch of coastal road before us. The sea is in a cheery mood today, blue waters tipped with white foam, looking for all the world like they’re waving at us. With the windows rolled down and the fresh sea breeze blowing our hair into wild tumbles, it feels like it too.
I’m tempted, just for a moment, to stop, take a minute to tread the waves and get utterly sunburnt, with her by my side. But the motel we had booked for the night was still a good few hours away, and we couldn’t afford to stop.
We had only stopped twice since we got on the road. Once, because she had to use the bathroom, and once when I was unable to resist the little pol athu shops selling small steaming stacks of rotti with pork curry.
The rest of the snacks currently littering the car, she had brought, which was the entire reason I had bitten into a hot dog without knowing it contained my mortal enemy, mustard.
My extremely meticulous focus on the road is interrupted by a tentative question. “Do you want some chips?” I’m about to say no when she continues, “It’s sour cream and onion.”
Dang it! How did she know this was my favourite?
“Sure,” I say. “But I can’t eat while driving, so you’ll have to feed me.”
I meant it in an entirely joking manner, so her quiet “okay” throws me completely.
For one furious second, I ask myself what I got myself into. Of course, she would think nothing wrong with the request. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The next moment her fingertips are right next to my mouth, a handful of sour cream and onion chips between them. I delicately pick them off her fingers and crunch them loudly, hoping, illogically, that this would mask the fact that my cheeks are flaming. I dare not even look into the mirror to check.
Instead, I look at the road, at the steering wheel of my beloved Toyota, at the yaka charm hanging from the rearview mirror. I look into the mirror, seeing the back seat neatly packed with two bags, two pillows, and another big bag overflowing with a multitude of snacks. The beige coloured leather of the seat is barely visible behind it. I look everywhere, anywhere, but her.
My attention is brought back, not to the nearly empty road, but to the small fingers once again hovering in front of my mouth. Much much too late, I realize that an awkward silence will be the least of my worries during this trip.
After another hour or so, I finally summon the courage to peek her way again. She’s either very oblivious, or a very good actress, and she’s acting like nothing is amiss, which I appreciate. She’s singing along to the radio now, the AC on full blast and aimed at her face so she can pretend she’s a celebrity on stage. I’ve never seen this carefree side to her. It’s fascinating.
With some effort, I pull my eyes back to the road.
Inwardly, I scoff at myself. Of course, I wouldn’t have seen any carefree side to her. Or any side at all, really. My time at home is spent avoiding her as much as possible. I don’t want to come across as a creep.
The truth is, I’m a little scared of what I feel for her. So I avoid it. Just like I avoid thinking of her by name. Just her. I take in a deep breath. Coward, I think. I think of the girl not two feet from me, just out of view, but that doesn’t matter. Her presence so near me is electrifying.
This girl. The girl. The only girl.
“Say, what kind of songs do you listen to?” she asks suddenly, making me jump. My heart thuds loudly, not entirely out of shock. “Ummmm…” I stall.
She waits.
And waits.
And waits.
And waits.
“Well?” she prompts. “Everything…I guess?” it unintentionally comes out as a question. The truth is I never had much time for music, I preferred the quiet stillness of a book instead. However, my lie is far from convincing. She rattles off a bunch of names (songs? artists? albums?) of which I know none. This goes on for a full, torturous, very long minute that feels like an excruciating hour.
At last, she falls silent. I’ve blown it.
“Okay,” I confess. “I don’t really listen to music.”
“But why didn’t you just say that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to sound lame, I guess?”
More silence. I sneak a peek again.
She’s looking up at me through eyes so wide she looks like a startled doe, so pure and innocent. I again take a moment to furiously berate myself and my thoughts. I’m almost confident I have my wayward mind under control when she declares, “But I really like you, I don’t think you’re lame.”
This time there are no chips to crunch loudly to distract from the blush that paints my cheek, the erratic beating of my heart, the fingers that suddenly have a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
Get a grip! I yell at myself. She meant it perfectly innocently. Right?
I deliberately flex my fingers, feeling the cool leather beneath them. I quietly inhale, trying to ignore her perfume’s flowery fragrance, and instead focusing on the clean new car smell of the seats, the pine-scented air freshener, the lavender oil on my wrists, and the occasional smell of fresh vadé that wafts through the window. My eyes focus on the yaka charm again, and it helps, the demonic visage distracting me just a little bit. Just enough.
Some tiny part of my mind whispers, why did you ask her along if you don’t want to make a move? I have no answer for that. I groan quietly. Shut up.
Looking at her out of the corner of my eye, far too much of a coward to turn and look fully at her face, I grin wryly at her compliment. At least, I hope it looks like a grin and not a pained grimace. Most likely, I look like a pig again.
“Thanks,” I say. And then, in a stroke of pure genius, “Why don’t you show me your favourite songs?”
“Sure,” she says.
Half an hour later I’m beginning to have a new appreciation for music. Part of it’s the fact that she has some good taste, or rather, a similar aesthetic to me. The other part is just…her. It’s hard not to like any song that comes accompanied with her doe eyes, or her quiet harmonizing.
The little voice in the back of my head is sniggering. Oh, you have it bad.
Shut up! I tell it.
But several times, when I sneak a glance at her, I have the odd feeling that she had just looked away herself.
We stop the car for a few minutes to enjoy the sunset, throwing fiery spears that lance across the skies trying to anchor onto the clouds as the sun sinks below the ocean line. The reds and golds are new to us both, and we both marvel at the unfettered beauty of it, unrestricted by smoke or skyscrapers.
Choose your ending. If you’re feeling mushy and want this to end on a bright note, please continue.
If you’re feeling bored/tired of fluff/where’s the angst?? Please continue from the next section break.
As the last rays of the dying sun disappear into its watery grave, we settle back with an echoed sigh of mingled bliss and wonder. I close my eyes for a moment, just basking in the beauty of the moment.
The moment I open my eyes, I realize that I was not prepared for this. For being alone with her. In a car. In the dark. On a beach, with the windows rolled down, coconut trees waving overhead, and the soft wash of waves on the sand.
As she turns to look at me, the stars reflect off her eyes, and once again I’m undone.
“Andrea…” her name slips out of my mouth, the first time, I think, I’ve ever said it out loud. She bites her lip and looks down, and from the faint lights of passing vehicles, and the moonlight shining through the windshield, I could swear that this time, it was her blushing.
I have another brief moment of sheer panic. Am I reading her all wrong?
But then she looks up, and there’s the promise of a thousand stars in her eyes.
Despite my best efforts, my hand trembles as it reaches out to touch her cheek. My breath comes out in a shudder. The only consolation is that she seems to be in a similar state.
Our kiss is fleeting, endless, full of moonlight and starshine.
I pull back after a brief endless moment, and study the expression of dreamy bliss mixed in with astonishment on her face. She looks like I feel. And at this moment, I know that there’s no turning back for me. Yes, I silently tell the voice in my head, which is as dazed as the rest of me. I do have it bad.
Maybe this road trip was a good idea after all.
As the sun completely submerges beyond the edge of the world, and darkness falls around us like a cloak, we pull back onto the road. There’s still no uncomfortable silence. Instead, her songs fill the air, now soft and melodious in the background, non-intrusive and soothing.
Ten minutes of driving later, I pull to the side. I’m sure we’re close. We put our heads together and check the map. We’re not far from the motel. At most, another ten minutes.
By chance, we both look up from the map at the same time. I startle, not expecting her this close. Try as I might, I can’t look away. Her wide doe eyes reflect the streetlights, giving them an almost otherworldly look. My thoughts go haywire again. Say something, I tell myself. Awkward silence is bad.
But it’s her who looks down first, and the flashing lights from the truck passing us throw her, and the brilliant flush on her cheeks, to sharp light.
For one moment, I’m torn. But I can’t resist her when she’s right in front of me, her eyes full of light, looking like a picture of shy invitation. I reach out, slight tremors running through my hands, and gently tilt her chin up.
She gasps, involuntarily.
My eyes rest on her lips for a moment, just a moment, because I’m inevitably drawn back to her eyes.
I almost disregard the lights that wash over us suddenly, erratically. But some part of me is aware enough to glance at it.
“Andrea!” My shout is a warning, a plea, a lamentation all at once. The first time I’ve said her name out loud to her.
I have just enough time to push her away from me, hard, before the vehicle hits us.
—
Dear diary,
I went back home, to the other room, today. We’ve lived here, together, for almost a year. This is the first time I’ve ever been in this room. What had I been doing? I wasted so much time.
I looked at all the trinkets, all the mess of everyday life. All the little bits and pieces of someone who is no longer here to pick up where they left off.
I wish we never went on that road trip. I would’ve gladly traded that almost kiss for both of us being alive.
I looked at the pictures on the desk. The smiling, laughing faces. Nothing recent. I was so furious. My mind was already blurring out the memory. I wanted a photo to remember, at least.
The now painful memories of the road trip are the last I have. Nothing after. Closed casket funeral. To save me the trauma, they said. Fuck the trauma. I wanted to say goodbye.
But I only got the closed casket. An almost goodbye. Just like the almost-kiss of the last moment of our lives.
-Andrea
