I could try and drive and tune her presence out with music but her energy is louder than any band I can play. Her eyes say more than any lyrics.
Her eyes are what catch me—the way they’re always wide and surprised and I’m just lost, looking around, trying to figure out what I’m always missing.
The sky is dark purple and the horizon is etched in neon pink. It gives me an idea. “You have a sleeping bag, right?” I ask Dylan, and she nods.
We get into my car which has the strange smell of cologne mixed with cleaning products as if a businessman just used it to sleep with his housekeeper. At least it doesn’t smell like a dumpster anymore. I turn on the overhead light and hand Dylan the road atlas.
“Here, itinerary director,” I say. “Find me a campsite.”
She takes the map and opens it over her lap. I turn on the engine and roll down the windows. The air is crisp and there’s hardly any wind. She points to a spot on the map highlighted with a brown teepee. “Found one. It’s about one-quarter of my pinkie finger away,” she judges the distance.
I take her hand and measure her finger against the scale at the bottom of the map.
“That’s about twenty miles,” I say. I drop her hand before my fingers want to naturally curl around hers.
As we drive, Dylan informs me we need to stop at a gas station for camping provisions. She lists all the necessary food items: chocolate, candy, salt.
I want to add condoms to the list, but I kick the thought away. Besides, this is part of my plan. I’m not going to touch Dylan in a campground full of couples and families and kids. I can’t rip her clothes off. It’s an extra security measure.
Otis Redding serenades us down the highway. Sitting on the Dock of the Bay might be the most calming song ever recorded. I mean, it has ocean waves and seagulls whistling in the background. And I still can’t unwind. Dylan’s bare leg is next to me and it’s always been my favorite arm rest while I’m driving. Her skin sings louder than the music. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
Dylan is single.
Shit.
I turn up the music and drive and keep my eyes focused on the white highway lines. I try not to think at all, just keep my mind like a dry, barren desert. When we pull up to the campground registration, Dylan pays the $14 site fee. She tells me it’s the least she can do. She talks to the ranger about which campsites are the best. They all look the same to me, dotted with trees, lined with picnic tables, fire pits and water faucets.
She buys a bundle of firewood and when she jumps out of the car to get it, it looks like she has springs in her feet. She sees this as a vacation. I see it as a diversion.
Dylan gets back in the car and we loop around the campground. In the center is a community shelter with showers and restrooms. I park under a canopy of green leaves. I dig through my car console and find a lighter and Dylan releases her inner-Girl Scout and makes the fire.
I walk around the campsite, not sure where I am physically or mentally. It’s like I’m between places. The air is drier out here. I can breathe easier. I can start to sense the desert. The wide open sky is a celestial light show. It’s our own planetarium.
I’ve decided that love makes people stupid. We never learn from our mistakes. I tried love once and I got burned. I tried it once more, just to see if I got it wrong, if the second time around I would be smarter and stay further away from the flame or carry water to put it out completely. The second time around I crashed to the ground in a smoldering heap.
Yet here I am, at its mercy again and I can thrash and flail and roll around, but I can’t put it out. I can’t escape its drawing heat.
When I get back to our campsite, Dylan is sitting on a blanket next to the fire, poking it and making it jump and dance. I sit down on the picnic table bench, but the fire is making my skin too hot. I lean back and it doesn’t help. My brain is steaming. My body is as dry as firewood and Dylan is the flame.
I stand and back up to see which is disturbing me more, the fire or her presence. I glare at Dylan and bring up the words simmering in my head.
“Nick is gay?”
She looks up at me.
“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth, Dylan?” I ask her.
“I never said I was dating him,” she corrects me, as if this justifies everything.
“That’s no excuse,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says slowly, her voice sincere. “Nick knows all about you. He’s seen pictures of you, so when he saw you in the parking lot, he was just trying to be a good friend.”
I shake my head. “Nick, the dog whisperer,” I smirk. “I really hate him.”
She smiles. “He’s not even a vet. He still lives in his parent’s basement,” she admits. “Supposedly he’s inventing a board game that’s going to revolutionize the gaming industry.”