Page 77 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“I’ve worked hard to get where I am. Half of everyone still thinks I’m a spoiled rich kid who pisses away opportunities just because he can. Do I really need everyone to know I’m here on a bribe?”

There’s something raw and defeated in the hard line of his jaw, and he steps back from the car, far enough that I could back out of the space if I wanted. I know I’m losing valuable minutes sitting here, but I can’t make myself move. I just keep looking at him, thinking that maybe if he wants this as much as I think he does – as much as I do – that it makes everything easier. Cleaner. On some level I always imagined this was about him, and me, or his feelings for me, but in the end it’s always only been business.

It’s sobering. It’s comforting. The truth is that everybody wants something. And truthfully, I’m tired of doing everything on my own.

I unlock the doors with an audible click. I stare straight ahead as he climbs in beside me.

“No touching the radio. No superfluous stops. Don’t ask to drive. And please don’t make me regret this.”

He extends his hand across the console to give me a fist bump. I tap my knuckles against his reluctantly. At the point of contact, he spreads his fingers in a slow motion explosion. Thankfully I’m spared the sound effects.

Still, I think about the fireworks. I think about lying under him on his couch, and the way my skin burned when he pressed his lips to mine. I think about the fact that this entire plan could go up in flames. I slide on my sunglasses and put the car in gear.

20.

The thing about Florida is that it’s sticky, the way your skin feels in the summer when you try to dry your hair in the same bathroom where you just took a long shower. Which is to say: I don’t want to be here. The balmy air seems to seep through the vents as we cross the state line on a two-lane highway around the sixth hour in my car, and I’m beyond ready to snap.

Up until this point, Quentin has been, for the most part, a model citizen, but it is at this moment that he begins tapping his window as if there’s something of paramount importance that he needs me to see. In the split second glance I afford him, all I manage to see is more of the endless, pine-riddled nowhere that we’ve been speeding though for the past couple of hours.

“Pull over,” he insists.

“No,” I say automatically.

Another crooked mailbox whirrs by.

“Heidi,” he says. “The sign said snow cones, fireworks, and lotto tickets. How can you say no to this?”

“What part of ‘superfluous’ did you not understand?”

“Boiled peanuts!” he exclaims now. “Alligator jerky!”

“Okay, not just ‘no’, but ‘fuck no’.”

“You’re about to…” He heaves a sigh. “You passed it.”

“I did you a favor.”

“Who even are you?” he says. “Isn’t there some little kid inside of you dying for a snow cone and a bottle rocket and the possibility of enough money to buy yourself everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more?”

“The little kid inside of me would probably laugh at all the little kids who think that’s realistic,” I offer.

“You could’ve at least let us stop for snacks. It’s been hours. I think at this point you’re withholding food and basic necessities as punishment.”

“I don’t let people eat in my car,” I offer.

“Not even if one of those people secured us the last room on the entirety of Santa Lucia Island?”

I attempt to keep my eyes on the tailend of the car in front of us – which has annoyingly been driving exactly four miles under the speed limit for the past fifteen miles of an inexplicable no passing zone – and snag a peek at the phone in his hand. The image on the screen definitely has the vibe of a rental confirmation.

“It can’t be the last one,” I offer.

“I’ve been searching for hours. Trust me, it’s the last one. Between the vacationers and the fishing junkies, we’re lucky we aren’t sleeping in the car. Normally I would never say this, but this place could use a couple of high rises.”

I make a noise that falls somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. I can feel Quentin giving me a look.

“You know you could just say thank you,” he says.

I silently acknowledge that yes, this is in fact a possibility. But by the time we’re standing in the dingy little dive bar with garland string lights that have tiny red solo cups as lampshades, “thank you” is the furthest thing from my mind.

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