“Nuh-uh, oh no, don’t credit me for that. He did it all on his own.”
Joel puts the truck into gear and shakes his head. “You know as well as I do, that’s bullshit.”
“Ha! And you know all too well that man doesn’t do a damn thing he doesn’t want to.”
“Well, something or someone shined a light in the right direction,” he adds as I shake off his compliment, ignoring the bat shit flutter threatening in my chest.
Stuck in the Middle with You
Stealers Wheel
Natalie
“What the fuck?!” Easton barks as we fly past another sign on the interstate, and I try to decipher it, equally as confused as I was when we passed the last one. In the next second, Easton taps the brakes hard, lurching me forward before screaming out of his driver-side window. “Fucking idiot!”
Unsurprisingly, it’s the same sentiment he’s spouted toward every driver who’s come before the last. He braves a glance over at me, another car whizzing past us, coming dangerously close before darting into the next lane. “Did you see what the speed limit is?”
I scan the side of the highway for another sign and try to make sense of it. “I think there are four speed limits. It depends on the type of vehicle you’re driving and whether it’s day or night.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
I shrug. “I say go with the flow of traffic?”
Just as I say it, multiple cars blur around us as if we’re in a Formula One race.
“With the flow?!” Easton shrieks, his expression bewildered as I press my lips together to stifle my laughter.
“So, I’m guessing this is the downside of having a driver most of your life?”
“Don’t give me that shit. I’ve driven nearly every fucking highway since we left Washington. This isn’t fucking normal or in any way acceptable!” He declares, his posture ramrod straight. His eyes frantically dart across the six-lane highway as he white-knuckles the wheel before glancing over to see my amusement. “Think this is fucking funny? This isn’t fucking funny!”
“S-s-sorry, I’ve just never seen you so wound up.”
“Is your seatbelt on?!” He doesn’t bother looking this time, his panicked eyes focusing on the road.
“Yes, Easton.”
“Double check! I’m not kidding, Natalie!” He screeches as another car darts in front of us, narrowly missing our front bumper. A long, colorful, and I’m almost certain not entirely English string of curses follows, which has my levee breaking as repressed laughter bursts out of me. After a full thirty seconds, I manage to get it to a rolling cackle.
“Natalie, this isn’t funny,” he whines. “Get us the fuck out of here!”
Pulling up my GPS app, I make a fast decision to lead us out of the city, knowing it doesn’t really get any better.
“Natalie!”
“I’m on it! Pfft, JEZUZ, Crowne. It’s clear we wouldn’t make it back united if we got lost in the Australian Outback if you act like this during times of extreme stress,” I jest. Another bout of laughter flows out of me before his desperate plea cuts through it.
“Please, baby, please,” he whimpers, “get us the fuck off this highway.”
“I’m on it,” I reply instantly, stunned by his term of endearment as the directions populate. He darts his gaze between the rearview, side view, and the road while my heart rate continues to spike, beat after beat. He’s said it before, when we were intimate, in the moment. I know why this one hit so differently. It’s because of how he said it—so naturally, as if we already exist as an us, as if I already belong to him in the most intimate sense. It’s also because I know I want so much for it to be a possibility, to be the truth. The hope circulating through me brings about the same damning conclusion I’ve been avoiding, curbing, side-stepping, ignoring, and mourning since I left Seattle.
I want to belong to Easton.
I want us to exist.
Again, I want what I can’t have.
After our very short and terrifying ride outside downtown Dallas, we ended up in Fort Worth, ironically landing at a local tourist attraction. This one of my choosing is The Herd, a longhorn cattle drive that takes place twice a day downtown in the Stockyards National Historic District.
After a brief shopping trip—my suggestion for anonymity’s sake—Easton managed to secure us the entirety of a tiny patio of a Mexican restaurant facing the street with just enough greenery to keep us out of view of prying eyes. Nestled away from the public while managing to be a part of it all, we’ve spent the afternoon alternating sipping frosted schooners of light beer and water while stuffing our faces with tortilla chips and salsa.