Finally, Forever(11)

“What?” Dylan looks disappointed. “You miss out on so much when you drive at night,” she argues.

“You’re not going to miss out on anything, trust me,” I say.

She looks out the window at flat farm fields stretched along both sides of the highway. “All the scenery vanishes. It’s like you’re driving in an empty, emotionless, black tunnel.”

I nod. Sounds perfect.

“You call this scenery?” I ask and point around us. “Do you know what Nebraska is famous for?”

“Really big corn?” she wonders. “Corn dogs, corn chowder, corn bread, corn meal, corn—”

“It’s famous for people falling asleep at the wheel. That’s how not-awesome the scenery is. I can take the night shifts,” I offer. “And you can sleep. Then during the day, you can drive and I’ll sleep.”

I smile at my Operation Avoid Dylan Plan. Activated.

She studies me. “Are you trying to avoid me?” she asks.

I answer her question by turning up the music and tuning out our conversation. I know it’s a dick move, but I don’t care. She has Snicker Bar to console her. And touch her. And taste her. My fingers clench around the steering wheel. Sitting so close to her, I can almost smell her skin.

I kick my car into fifth gear and we’re flying down the highway and a Moody Blues song is playing on the radio. I listen to the lyrics and agree that love is only in our wildest dreams. Even when it’s sitting right next to you, it always feels out of reach.





Dylan





He’s doing it again. He’s building a wall around his mind, a giant barricade with guards standing watch behind the parapets, weapons and arrows posed and ready to disarm at anyone daring to come through. But his mind is like a town that I’ve lived in and I know every street. I’ve memorized every turn, every slope, and every jagged hill. He can put up road blocks and build detours all he wants, but I know my way around with my eyes closed.

I look out the window as we glide by cars on the highway. I try to pass the time by focusing on the families and couples inside, or the solo drivers with eyes lost behind the mask of sunglasses. Imagining their stories helps me think outside of my own situation. I feel like we’re all connected, all together on a journey through the pages of The Illustrated History of the American Road. But no matter how hard I try to ignore him, my eyes keep getting pulled back to Gray. His hands are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I know the shape of them so well. I’ve memorized them like a photograph pinned in the center of my mind.

Orange sunlight is sinking in the sky and it mirrors a sinking feeling inside my chest.

I remember how his lips taste. I remember his smile; how it’s the most beautiful image I’ve ever seen. How the first time I saw him smile, on Mill Avenue in Phoenix, my head started to spin. I remember raising my camera and instinctively taking a picture, even though he was barely more than a stranger back then. All I knew was I wanted to capture that image of him. I made it my personal mission to make him smile.

“I’ve been listening to a lot of Counting Crows lately,” I say. “You introduced me to them.”

Gray doesn’t look over at me, doesn’t even react. He might not have heard me, but I keep going.

“I love their first album,” I say and stare out at the hazy horizon. The humid air is so thick it swallows us. “They ask a lot of questions in their lyrics. They make you think. You could fill an entire journal just answering the questions in their songs.”

Gray’s silent. I notice his mouth tighten at the corner as if he wants to respond but he’s fighting it. I’m trying to open the lock on his lips and I think talking about music can do it. It’s his favorite conversation topic. He always has an opinion.

“The best song on that album is track eleven,” I press. “It’s all about change. How change is maybe the most important thing in life. And the hardest.”

Gray’s lips open and he sucks in a breath. I smile to myself. I’ve opened up the seam. I give myself a mental high-five.

“What did you mean when you said I White-Fanged you?” he asks.

“It’s a movie reference,” I say and stretch my legs and rest one of my sneakers on top of the dashboard. I look over at him. “White Fang?”

He starts to smile. “Isn’t that the movie about a dog?”

“It’s a wolf, Gray,” I correct him. “A boy, played by Ethan Hawke, makes friends with a wolf. But he realizes the wolf will never be happy as a pet. It needs to be wild and free. So he pushes it away. He throws rocks at White Fang and forces him to run. He thinks he’s doing the best thing for him. He just wants him to be free.”