Page 32 of Without You

“Is it okay if I ride with you?” he asks hesitantly. “I probably shouldn’t have assumed. I can catch a ride with Victoria or your parents.”

He’s rattling on and it takes me a few seconds too long to catch on to his train of thought. “What?” I shake my head. “No. Yes. No.”

We reach the car, and he stares at me in confusion. “What I meant,” I say a little more coherently, “is of course it’s okay if you ride with me.” I unlock the car, pressing the key fob in my pocket and open his door. “I picked you up, I want you to ride with me.”

Wordlessly, he steps up into the truck and I find myself watching the way his clothes stretch and pull against his body as he maneuvers himself into the seat.

“What?” he asks self consciously when he notices me staring. “Did I scratch your truck or something?” He twists his neck to look behind him. “Did a bird shit on my clothes?”

What the actual fuck is going on with me right now? Was I just checking him out?

My pulse races. Frantic. Fraught. Overworked.

Unable to give him an answer, I push the door shut; knowing it’s a dick move, but having nothing logical or relevant to replace it with.

It’s my default.

When I don’t know, or I can’t get the words right, I shut down. He’s witnessed it a million times over the years. A million more this weekend. What’s one more time, right?

I walk myself to the driver’s side but delay climbing in while I try to dissect the maelstrom of feelings and thoughts inundating my body and mind.

Shoving my hands through my hair in frustration, I acknowledge that if I stand out here any longer Julian will just ask more questions, or more likely, feel more self-conscious. I may not know much in this moment, or have answers to my own questions, let alone his, but I don’t want him doubting himself, or worrying about upsetting me.

I’ve done enough of that to him, and I know wholeheartedly, I want to at leasttryto not do it anymore.

When I finally get into the car, Julian’s eyes are glued to his phone, nonchalantly scrolling through whatever is on his screen.

My shoulders release the tension, internally grateful that it isn’t awkward or strained. The restaurant is a good forty minutes away from where we are now, and while it’s a comfortable silence, I find myself not wanting to miss the opportunity to talk to Julian. To hear him talk to me.

To try to work out when, why and how he’s no longer the man I can’t stand to be around.

Beating me to it, he says, “It’s nice that we’re all going to El Sarapes.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I agree.

“And your mom…”

I shift my gaze between the empty, long road in front of me and Julian. “It was unexpected,” I admit.

“Did you mean what you said to her? About staying?”

We stop at a traffic light, and my fingers dance around the edge of the steering wheel, buying time. “I think the question we both should be asking is will she still feel warm and nostalgic once everybody else has gone and it’s only me, my dad and her in the house?”

“But would you stay?” he presses.

“I love Seattle. I love living there,” I explain. “I love living there more than I love living here. So… would I stay?” I shake my head. “Probably not.” I let out a loud, vulnerable sigh, because there isn’t a secret in the world I can seem to keep from Julian. “But, would I like to visit my mom and dad, and not go home feeling like shit?” I snicker. “Yeah. Every now and then I would.”

“So,” he stalls.

“So?”

“When are you going home?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be around for much longer,” I joke.

He shifts in his seat. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, I’m kidding,” I assure him. “I’m just playing it by ear. I haven’t seen my family in a year, and I made a promise to myself I wouldn’t leave until we made some kind of amends.”

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