We’ve been on the road for months. By March, we had already grown so used to it that living in and out of hotels had become second nature. A new room every week, a new city, a new beach, a new everything. But no matter how new it all is, each time we go in it’s as if we’re stepping through the front door of a house where we’ve lived for years. I never would’ve imagined calling a hotel room “home,” or that life on the road would be as easy to adjust to as it has been for us. Sometimes it’s been hard, but everything is an experience and I wouldn’t change any of it.
But I wonder if the long winter got to me. I wonder, because I’ve caught myself daydreaming about being in a house somewhere, living the home life with Andrew.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was just the winter.
It’s two o’clock in the morning, and we’re broke down somewhere in southwest Florida on a long stretch of desolate highway. And it’s pouring down rain. Buckets of rain. We called for a tow truck an hour ago, but for some reason it still hasn’t showed.
“Is there an umbrella in the car anywhere?” I ask over the rain pounding loudly on the roof. “Maybe I can hold it over you while you fix the car!”
“It’s pitch-black out there, Camryn,” he says, his voice raised as high as mine. “Even with a flashlight I doubt I could do it. I’d have to figure out what’s even wrong with it, first.”
I slump down further into the front seat and prop my feet on the dash, my knees bent toward me. “At least it’s not cold,” I say.
“We’ll manage out here tonight,” he says. “Wouldn’t be the first time we slept in the car. Maybe the tow truck will show up before daylight, and if not, I’ll fix it when I can see.”
We sit together in silence for a moment, listening to rain beat on the car, the thunder rumbling like a wave through the clouds. Eventually, we get so tired that we crawl into the backseat, curl up on it together, and try to get some sleep. After a short while, when it’s obvious we’re both uncomfortable and there’s not enough room for us to sleep like this, Andrew crawls over into the front. But we still can’t fall asleep. I feel him shifting for a while and then he asks, “Where do you see yourself in the next ten years?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, staring up at the roof of the car. “But I do know that I want to be doing whatever it is with you.”
“Me too,” he says from the front, laying the same way that I am now, on his back looking upward.
“Have you thought about anything specific?” I ask, quietly wondering where he’s going with this. I switch my left arm for my right, tucking it underneath the back of my head.
“Yeah,” he says. “I want to settle down somewhere warm and peaceful. Sometimes I picture you on the beach, barefoot in the sand with the breeze blowing through your hair. I’m sitting under a tree not too far away, playing around with my guitar—”
“The one I bought you?”
“Of course.”
I smile and continue to listen, picturing the scene in my mind.
“And you’re holding her hand.”
“Whose hand?”
Andrew falls silent for a moment. “Our little girl,” he says distantly as if his mind is a little further away than mine is.
I swallow and feel a knot grow in my throat. “I like that visual,” I say. “So, you want to settle down?”
“Eventually,” he says. “But only when it feels right. Not a day before.”
A gust of wind hits the side of the car, and a loud clap of thunder shakes the ground.
“Andrew?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“Number three, to add to our list of promises. If we make it to old age and our bones hurt and we can’t sleep in the same bed anymore, promise me we’ll never sleep in separate rooms.”
“It’s a promise,” he answers with a smile in his voice.
“Good night,” I say.
“Good night.”
And when I fall asleep minutes later, I dream about that warm beach and Andrew watching me walk along the sand with a little hand clasped in mine.
The tow truck never came. We wake up the next morning stiff and in pain, regardless of each of us having a seat to ourselves.
“I’m going to kick the shit out of that tow truck guy if I ever see him,” Andrew growls underneath the hood.
He’s busy twisting a wrench around… I’m not even going to pretend that I know what that thing is. He’s fixing the car. That’s all I know. And he’s in a seriously foul mood. I just hang around to help him with whatever he needs, and I don’t play the dumb-blonde card by asking him what this doohickey is or what that thingamajig does. Truth is, I really don’t care. And besides, it’d just aggravate him more if he had to explain it.
But the sun is out. And it’s hot! I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven!
I splash around in the puddles from last night’s rain, soaking my flip-flops. I don’t know what’s gotten into me other than simply the weather, but I raise my arms high in the air above me and look up at the sky, twirling around and around in the middle of the road.
“Will you get over here and help me?” Andrew grumbles.
I skip over to him and pinch his sides playfully because I’m in such a great mood, and I just can’t help it. But then
“Shit, baby! I’m sorry!” I reach out to a pissed-off Andrew, green eyes swirling, but then he shuts them as his cheeks fill up with air and wheeze out slowly.
I grab his head, rub it, and then kiss him on the nose. I still can’t stop smiling, but I’m not laughing at him, just trying to work the puppy-dog eyes.
“You’re forgiven,” he says and points underneath the hood. “I need you to hold this piece still right here for a second.” I go around to that side, peer underneath the hood, and stick my hand into the area, feeling for his fingers to guide me.
“Yeah, right there,” he says. “Now just hold it.”
“For how long?”
“Until I say,” he says, and I see the grin sneak up at the corner of his mouth. “If you let go, the oil pan will fall out and we’ll be stuck here for a long time.”
“Well, hurry up then,” I say, already feeling a crick in my neck beginning to form.
He walks around to the trunk and gets a bottle of water. Slowly he twists off the lid. Takes a sip. Looks around at the fields. Takes another sip.
“Andrew, are you screwing with me?” I peek around the raised hood the best I can to see him.
He just smiles. And takes another sip.
“Don’t let go. I mean it.”
“Bullshit,” I say and start to move my fingers, but decide not to. “Are you telling me the truth? Seriously?”
“Yeah, sure I am. The oil pan will fall right out and it’ll probably splash all over you too. Hard to get that shit off your skin.”
“My back is starting to hurt,” I say.
He takes his sweet time, and just when I’m about to let go, he moves around behind me and grabs me by the waist, pulling me away from the hood. One hand comes up and he smears black gook all over my cheek. I shriek at him and push him away.
“Gah! Shit, Andrew! What if I can’t get this stuff off?” I’m seriously pissed, but a small part of me can’t resist that smile of his.
“It’ll come off fine,” he says, leaning back underneath the hood. “Now just get in the car and turn the key when I tell you to.”
