Page 120 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“That makes two of us, sweetheart.” He shifts on the seat, and I want to feel bad about the welts on his testicles, I do, but he makes it so damn hard. “Don’t blame me. You brought the paper map. You’re directing us. I’m just following orders.”
“Bullshit.” I trace the map, looking for landmarks to identify our location. “Why are you even on this trip?”
He dangles one hand over the wheel and the other on the armrest. “I want to ensure everything stays on track.”
“You’re doing a stellar job so far.”
“Listen, I’m the driver.”
The road narrows fast.
He slows the bus at what appears to be a dead-end cattle path with pavement breaking apart into gravel and then into hard-packed dirt.
In front of us, a rusty metal gate sags between two leaning fence posts. Brittle grass stretches out over a dusty expanse of nothing, broken only by a gnarled oak tree and one very confused-looking longhorn.
He squints through the windshield. “This can’t be right.”
“No kidding.” I inhale until my nose stings. “Welcome to the edge of the map.”
The bus engine idles, and he throws it into park, letting his hands fall from the wheel. “Let me see that thing? I don’t think you’re reading it right.” He reaches for the map.
I jerk it away. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying—” He reaches again.
“No, no, no, no. You’ve been ignoring this thing for hours, and now you want to play navigator?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying maybe you’re not right.”
“Oh, that’s rich.” I throw up a hand. “This is clearly not the way I told you to go.”
“I haven’t questioned your instructions once.”
I scoff. “You’ve literally questioned every single instruction I’ve given you.”
“I suppose with good reason, because look where your directions got us.” He grips the oversized steering wheel tighter. “Your map’s about a hundred years old and—.”
“I am telling you,” I cut in. “We’re not supposed to be anywhere near this stretch. You missed the turn miles ago.”
He doesn’t answer and squints ahead, where bluebonnets and fiery red wildflowers sway in the breeze.
I point the folded map at him. “You need to back out.”
He holds out his hand. “You need to give me the map.”
I twist in my seat and pull the map closer to my chest. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to wrestle it away.
“Give me the damn map—” He lunges.
“Get your hands off—” I twist.
We’re both reaching, shoving, getting in each other’s way. I lunge too fast. He moves too slowly. My elbow clocks him in the chin.
He winces, leaning back with a hand to his jaw, fingers testing the spot where my elbow landed.
“You deserve it,” I snap, twisting in the grip of his other hand, still trying to wrench free.
He pulls his hand from his jaw and snatches the corner before I can move.
