Page 78 of Fake As Puck
She says it so casually, like we really are a couple making collective judgments about people.
A song comes on that she obviously loves, because she immediately turns it up and starts singing along. Not loudly, not performing, just singing because the song makes her happy.
I find myself watching her lips move with the words, the way she unconsciously sways with the music, the way her hands gesture when she gets to a part she particularly likes.
She’s beautiful. Not just objectively beautiful, though she is that. But beautiful in the way she moves through the world. In the way she finds joy in small things like the perfect road trip song.
In the way she makes everything feel lighter just by being there.
“Eyes on the road, West,” she says without looking at me.
“My eyes are on the road.”
“Your eyes are definitely not on the road.”
“How do you know where my eyes are if you’re not looking at me?”
“I can feel you staring.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“You were totally staring.”
“I was... appreciating.”
“Appreciating what?”
“Your... enthusiasm for music.”
“My enthusiasm for music.” She blinks at me.
I look at her and then back at the road. Then her again and smile. “Yeah.”
“That’s what you were appreciating.”
“Among other things.”
She turns to look at me then, and there’s something in her expression that makes my chest tight.
“What other things?”
I should make a joke. Deflect. Change the subject to something safer.
Instead, I say, “Everything.”
We stare at each other for a moment. Well, I stare at her while trying to keep the car on the road, and something passes between us that feels significant.
“West,” she says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“We need gas.”
I look at the dashboard and realize she’s right. We’re running on fumes.
“Right. Gas.”
I pull off at the next exit, and while I’m filling the tank, Liv disappears into the mini-mart attached to the gas station.
