by Lisa Suzanne
Dax: Maybe not all hope is lost. If you need to talk, call me.
Dax: Any time. Day or night.
I laugh as that last one pops through. It’s something friends say to sound supportive, but I can’t help thinking he probably wouldn’t be quite so supportive if I called him at four in the morning while he was cuddled up asleep next to his future wife.
Besides, I don’t need to talk. I’m fine. I’ll get over it, and soon this will all be a distant memory.
I just have to get through this stupid road trip first.
It’s a little after noon, so I slept a good four hours—and that also means I slept off whatever liquor was poisoning my veins. I’m fine to drive now, and I’m ready to get the fuck out of this town where words were said that can’t be taken back. After we see the only green arches, of course.
I run a hand over my short hair. It’s been over two months since the night I cut it, and I’m still not used to it.
It was a staple of my identity, just another thing Amber stole from me along with my trust in women and my desire to commit. I glance in the mirror hanging above the dresser. I guess I look better this way. I’ve gotten more sidelong glances from women since I cut it, which is disappointing when you think about it. Women suddenly like me because I have shorter, darker hair...but I’m still the same guy I’ve always been.
I’ve also ignored most of that newfound attention or been oblivious to it because I was so fucking blinded by Amber.
Not anymore.
I throw open the door, and Amber jumps where she sits on the couch, startled.
“You’re still here?” I say. I guess some small part of me was hoping she’d just leave and I wouldn’t have to deal with this or have to make good on my promise to Kylie.
She glances up at me, and even from the distance across the room, I can see the pain in her eyes. “I looked up flights,” she says in a small voice. “The closest airport is Phoenix. I can get any one of a number of flights out tonight, but it’s a two-hour drive to the airport.”
I sigh, and without looking at her, I say, “Forget it. We’ll go to Maine as planned.”
She jumps up from the couch. “We will?” she asks, all the hope in the world coloring her cheeks as she tosses her arms around me.
I nod and refuse to meet her excited eyes as I push her away. “Kylie wants us to finish the trip. If it were up to her, she’d listen to us fight in the car.” I roll my eyes. “It’ll be great for ratings,” I say, mimicking her voice.
Amber’s brows draw down—something I notice when I glance over at her for just a beat. “What if I don’t agree to all that?”
I lift a shoulder and turn away from her, heading back into the bedroom to grab my duffel bag. “Then you can pay your way to the Phoenix airport, foot the bill for your own plane ticket home, pay the fine for breaking the contract, and wonder forever if you have a sister who lives in Maine.”
She stalks over to the doorway to the bedroom. “That’s not fair, Will.”
I drop my bag on the dresser and turn to look at her with a heavy glare. “You want to talk about fair? Fair isn’t breaking up with someone because he got arrested. Fair isn’t breaking up with someone because you’re ashamed of him.”
“You know that’s not why I broke up with you.” Her hands go to her hips.
“Do I?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I broke up with you because I can’t stay in a relationship where I don’t see a future. The arrest was just the final nail in the coffin, Will.” She spins on a heel and exits the bedroom, taking with her any chance we had of getting back together.
Her words sting because I did see a future.
I find her standing by the door with her suitcase handle between her fingers as she waits for me.
“Put your mic pack back on,” I demand, and she points to it to show me it’s already on. Mine’s on, too, but it’s powered off at the moment. I flick it back on, flash her a smirk, and lead the way down to my car.
CHAPTER 18: AMBER
I get it. He hates me.
And he’s making that very clear.
That very thin line between love and hate has been crossed.
When I asked if we could stop at the Tlaquepaque Arts and Crafts Village, he grunted. He didn’t even dignify my question with a response. Instead, he drove me to McDonald’s.
Yes, you heard me correctly.
Mc-freaking-Donald’s.
After I told him my least favorite fast food restaurant was McDonald’s during our Hot Seat game on the drive up here.
And he did it all in front of the cameras. If this is how he wants to portray himself on television, fine. But I refuse to be party to this game, so I keep my mouth shut.
“But why are they blue?” some elderly woman says. She stares at the face of the building as we walk past her into the restaurant.
“They’re turquoise,” the man with her answers. I glance up at the building and notice they’re talking about the famous M that creates two arches in the restaurant’s logo. “And it’s because there are rules in Sedona about what colors can be on buildings so as not to interfere with the natural beauty around here.”
“Huh,” the woman says.
Learn something new every day, I guess.
“Did you know that?” I ask Will.
“Why do you think I wanted to come here?” He walks into the restaurant and joins the short line waiting to order.
To be a dick? “I assumed for the fine dining, but I gather it was to see turquoise arches?”
He smirks at me again, and I wish I didn’t find it so attractive. I wish it didn’t pull at my heartstrings the way it does.
But it does, and he hates me, and clearly he’s going to make this trip miserable for me.
I haven’t been to McDonald’s since I was in college and we needed a drunken two AM pick me up after some party. It was the closest fast food to campus, and we frequented it often. So often, in fact, and so many times after nights where I was way too drunk to be eating fast food that I actually can’t even look at their chicken nuggets without feeling a little queasy.
He orders the nuggets, naturally, like he can read my mind. I’ve never told him about my secret past of hurling nuggets in the middle of the night in college. I opt for a Happy Meal with a cheeseburger.
“For here or to go?” the cashier asks.
“Here,” I say automatically because what kind of animal eats in the car?
“To go,” Will says, glaring at me before giving the cashier a firm nod of his head.
I sigh. “To go,” I repeat.
So that’s how this trip is going to go. He’ll demand to get his way and I’ll continue to give it to him because I feel bad for breaking up with him.
It’s the first day of this fresh new hell, but I can only be pushed so far.
Game. Motherfucking. On.
It’s late in the day before we start our official trek toward our next stop, which was scheduled to be Amarillo, Texas...but I have no idea what he’s thinking now.
The trip is awkward from the moment we get back in the car as we leave McDonald’s. I’m focusing on saying nothing incriminating in front of the cameras while he just doesn’t give a shit.
He drives and we eat in relative silence. I feel like he’s chewing extra loudly just to annoy me, something I admitted yesterday to him was one of my biggest pet peeves. He works on peeling the green label from a little container of sweet and sour dipping sauce, using both hands to work the label while he balances the steering wheel with his knee.
“Seriously?” I mutter. I grab the sauce and open it for him then hold it between us on the armrest so he can dip. He’s messy with his dipping, though, dripping sauce on my fingertips as I hold it for him, and when I glance over at him and spot a bit of smugness on his face, I realize he’s doing it on purpose.
I eat my fries with one hand while he eats more slowly than I’ve ever seen anyone eat in my life. He doesn’t just dip his nug
gets. He dips each individual fry in the sauce, and when I make a face at him that clearly says what he’s doing is disgusting, he says, “Don’t knock it until you try it.”
I take one of my fries and brush off some of the sauce on my hand with it before I eat it.
“Well?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“Okay?” he asks, and then he laughs. “I’ll convert you yet.”
When he’s done, my hand is covered in sauce. I wipe it with a napkin, but it just takes away the pool of sauce he purposely left behind. It doesn’t get rid of the stickiness.
I glance at his GPS. We’re a good five hundred fifty miles away from Amarillo, and knowing him, he won’t stop until he has to pee or we need gas, which we just got...so that means I’m stuck being sticky for the next few hours.
I won’t let it faze me, though.
He scans through the radio stations until he lands on one with country music. Just as I open my mouth to protest, he turns up the volume and taps his fingers on the armrest between us.
I grit my teeth.
He’s doing this on purpose.
That damn Hot Seat game gave him every last bit of material he needs to make this road trip absolute misery for me. First McDonald’s, then the chewing, and now country music...I can only imagine what’s coming next.
I half expect to look over at him and see him chewing on a toothpick as he hums along to the twangy beat, but I don’t allow myself that glance.
Instead, I stare out the window and try to block out the music.
I close my eyes, exhausted after a fairly restless night, but Will just turns up the volume on his country song and starts singing along. I shoot a special glare at him, and he looks over with that smirk again.
And that’s when I realize I have a few things in my own arsenal to throw him off his game.
Go big or go home...right?
“Oh God, Will,” I moan over the music. “I can’t wait until our next stop.”
He glances over at me, and I flutter my lashes and move my shoulders so my breasts are pressing together, causing a line of cleavage to spill out the top of my shirt. His eyes dart down before they return to the road, and God men are easy.
“Why’s that?” he mutters, and I hold back a giggle.
I lean across the seat and move my lips close to his ear. “I think you know why,” I practically moan, my warm breath tickling his ear. I note just a hint of a shiver before I settle back into my seat.
He glances at me again, just a quick look before his eyes return to focus on the road where they should be.
But in that split second, I saw what I needed to see. He may hate me for what I did, but he still wants me. And if hate sex is what he wants when we get to Amarillo, well, hate sex is what he’ll get.
CHAPTER 19: WILL
I love all different kinds of music, from rap to classical to pop to rock. When she first told me she didn’t like country music, I stored it as information for what not to play on our road trip.
But when she was an asshole in Sedona, well, I extracted that information and decided to use it in a different way.
I sing along to Florida Georgia Line at the top of my lungs, mostly because she looked like she was trying to sleep.
Oh, is she tired? Did she lose sleep over her words?
Well fuck her.
I lost sleep, too, and I’m not drifting off behind the wheel.
But I do have to piss. I shouldn’t have bought the large coffee at her favorite restaurant, McDonald’s, but it seemed like the best way to keep myself awake on the long-ass drive to Amarillo.
“Can we stop at the Petrified Forest?” she asks over the loud music when we’re an hour or so into our drive.
I’ve seen it. We took a family trip through Arizona when I was younger. It’s actually incredible, but if she wants to see it, I’m out. “I’ve got all the petrified wood you need right here, baby,” I say, grabbing my cock.
She rolls her eyes.
“We don’t have time to stop. Sorry.” I try to make my apology seem sincere since the cameras are watching. I can’t be a dick all the time or I’ll lose any rooting value with the Rock on the Road audience.
We do have the time, but because she’s the one who wants to stop, it’s a no. We don’t have any sort of set plan or schedule here—all we know is I need to be back in time for Dax and Kylie’s rehearsal dinner, which is still almost four weeks away.
Instead of the Petrified Forest, we stop at the Wigwam Motel to have a look around. It’s a hotel that offers its guests teepees to sleep in. We stayed here for a night on that family trip we took, and for just a second, I get lost in the memory of our trip.
I was eleven or twelve, and I wanted nothing to do with a road trip or my parents, and especially not the combination of the two. I just wanted to be home playing video games, and the Game Boy Advance they got me for the trip wasn’t good enough. The batteries kept dying and I kept getting frustrated at the size of the screen.
I was a spoiled brat.
Still am.
But that’s not the point. Funny how I’m in the same place sixteen or seventeen years later and once again, I want nothing to do with my road trip companion. Everything else has changed, though.
I have Amber snap a picture of me next to the room we stayed in all those years ago, and I text it to my mom asking if she recognizes where we are. Her response comes through a few minutes later, once we’re in the gift shop. I’m looking at Christmas ornaments to bring back for my parents when my phone buzzes.
Mom: Wigwam! We had the best time there. What did you decide to do about Amber?
I sigh.
I called my mom last night.
I told her everything.
And I mean everything.
I told her how I was hurt and how my plan was to have a few drinks before heading back to the room and telling her to find her way home. My mom is the one who convinced me that the gentlemanly thing to do is at least foot the bill for that.
My mom knows me better than anyone else in the world—the guys of MFB included. She knows my struggles with playing the keyboard. She knows how I have my own ambitions but how I’ve shoved them away so I could take one for the team, as Kylie put it.
I’ve been taking one for the team my entire career. My entire life.
When do I get what I want?
I’d started letting Amber in. I’d finally found something I really wanted—not just someone, but something. I wanted a future with her. I wanted to build something with her. I wanted to work together with her to leave our mark on this planet, whatever that meant. Maybe it meant leaving a legacy by having children, or maybe it meant a different kind of legacy that we’d create together.
I’d never thought future forward. Ever. It just hasn’t been part of my lifestyle or my vocabulary because all those things were always just decided for me.
But she made me want things I’d never wanted before.
My mom did say one thing that has stuck in my mind—even if I basically ignored it.
If she could make you feel what she did in such a short amount of time, imagine what a lifetime with her could mean for you.
She’s probably right. She’s always right.
She wants me to forgive Amber. She’s a churchgoer, and she’s tried her whole life to get me to be one, too, and I guess last week’s sermon was all about forgiveness so she’s on this bender now.
But I’m not her. I can’t just forgive and forget. I wish I could, but the cut is too fresh.
And so I’m doing what feels right to me...and that’s making this trip that I’m being forced to take miserable for her.
So far it seems to be working.
My agenda here is that I’ll piss her off so much that she’ll just bail and I can take my trip in peace like I’d originally planned before she plowed into my life and fucked it all up.
I text my mom back.
Me: I’m taking one for the MFB te
am, I guess. The trip is back on, but we’re not on good terms.
She replies with the laughing so hard she’s crying emoji. She always uses that one for something sad even though I’ve explained to her what it means a hundred times. She sees the tears and thinks it means someone is crying. I chuckle at my mom—not at her sentiment, though, which actually twists a little knife right into my gut—and slide my phone back into my pocket, and that’s when I notice Amber’s looking at me.
“What?” I ask.
A small smile plays at her lips. “What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, and I turn away from her. I’m not about to get into a chat about my mom, and especially not a chat that acknowledges everything I’ve told my mom about her, and moreover a chat that admits my mom is so sad she’s using the laughing with tears emoji to express her grief over the end of Amber and me.
We load into my truck after I find a souvenir for my mom at the gift shop, and then we hit a gas station where I grab more coffee before we head out of town.
And then I hop on the I-40, where we’ll travel for just over five hundred miles.
People may tend not to take me very seriously, but I still have the occasional deep thought. It’s even funnier that some of MFB’s deepest lyrics were penned by me...not by Dax, who writes the majority of our songs.
And as I think about the trip we’re taking, I can’t help but realize the symbolism of our road trip and how it relates to the journey of our lives.
I thought this trip would be a chance for us to journey back toward one another. I thought it would be a journey of me growing up into the man I wanted to be for her.
And instead...I’m pulling stupid shit like slamming on the brakes when I know she has to pee or blaring the twangiest shit I can find on the radio or tailgating the person in front of me because I can see her toes flexing toward her imaginary brake on the passenger side of the car. I yell at other drivers and give the one-finger salute and drive like an asshole simply to piss her off.
Even though I’m still being careful, of course.
My fingers start to itch because I want to write down my thoughts. I want to pour out what I’m feeling onto a sheet of paper, and I want to give it to Dax so together the five of us can turn it into MFB’s next big hit.