The Long Ride Home

by Tawni Waters

  Even though I’d had sex ed, read up on STIs and pregnancy, and learned how to put a condom on a banana, I answered by yanking off my shirt. I didn’t even think about protection. I wanted him, and I took him. Contrary to popular opinion, girls do that sometimes.

  When we finished, seagulls were screaming, and our clothes were strewn over the rocks. We’d managed to knock over the bottle. What was left of the bourbon was draining into the sand, which was probably for the best. I was pretty sure I was going to have a hellacious hangover the next day. Only then, with the sunset smudging Dean’s sweaty skin as he pulled his jeans back on, did I think about the word Mom said to me a million times in all of her talks. “Consequences,” she would say. “You are free to do whatever you want, but you are not free to do it without consequences.”

  If only I’d thought about that the night I lit the scented candle in the hallway because the house smelled bad. If only I’d thought about that as I drifted off to sleep thinking, I should put out that candle, and then, Nah, everything will be fine.

  Mom was right. Everything you do, big or small, has consequences.

  Three

  I remember the first time Mom told me about the highway of diamonds. I must have been four or five, and we were taking one of our daily walks, which sounds sweet and inspirational until you find out my mom was a total tyrant when it came to exercise. We’d walk five miles every day, rain or shine, which doesn’t seem that bad until you think about the fact that my legs were about as long as soda straws at that point. That was a lot of steps for me, and by the time we were two miles in, I’d be whining and begging to go home. I don’t know why I bothered. She never once gave in. Instead, she would sing songs to distract me, one of them being Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.”

  In spite of my best efforts to maintain my displeasure at being forced to walk, I’d lose myself in the song’s heartbreaking lyrics and melody.

  “What’s it about, Momma?” I asked, knowing it made me want to cry but not understanding why.

  “It’s about a little boy who has left his father on a long trip. When he sees his daddy again, he tells him all the things he’s seen.”

  She sang again, and I thought the kid must have had a really weird trip from his descriptions. The lyric that always made me wonder the most was about a highway of diamonds. It felt magical to me, like something from The Chronicles of Narnia that Mom read to me some nights. So I asked her about it.

  Mom thought for a minute, and then pointed to the sidewalk in front of our feet, shimmering in the sun. “See how the sidewalk looks like it’s filled with diamonds if you look right in front of you?”

  “Yeah,” I said, my tiny rib cage swelling with wonder.

  “But if you look far away, you can’t see the diamonds anymore?”

  She was right. You couldn’t. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I think the song means to trust you will be taken care of. You take the next step in front of you, the one that shines, the one that seems right, and then, you take the next one and the next, and before you know it, you’re home.”

  I jumped from one glittering patch of sidewalk to the next that day. I forgot to complain, and Mom was right. Before I knew it, we were home.

  I remembered that conversation when Dean and I packed up the bike for our trip this morning, and now, as I steer around a sharp bend, I notice the highway glittering a few feet in front of us. As a tribute to Mom, I decide to take one glittering step after the next until finally, hopefully (dear god in heaven, please?), I’m home.

  “You doing okay?” Dean screams in my ear.

  I can barely hear him over the wind.

  “Awesome!” I yell back.

  The wind burns my face. The sun melts my scalp through my helmet. The roaring of the engine drowns out all other sounds, but still, I’d be lying if I told you Dean’s arms around my waist aren’t what I notice most. A lot of guys would have a problem riding on the back of some chick’s bike, but not Dean. He doesn’t give a shit what people think.

  The road stretches forever, and if there is a heaven, I hope it looks like this—a big blur of blue and green, bisected by a hazy, gray line of horizon.

  There are a few things in this world I can say I have truly loved. One is my mom. One is my dog Leroy Brown, who got run over when I was in fourth grade. And one is the open road.

  Dean’s heat seeps through my leather jacket, and all I can do is wonder what I will have to give up if I give in to him. What will having a boyfriend do to my life? Will I need to stop riding my Harley alone? I mean having him here now is cool, but having him along all the time? No way. Will I have to sacrifice one of the only things I have ever truly loved, the only one I have left?

  We pull over at a rest stop. As I yank off my helmet, Dean whoops. “What a rush!”

  I laugh. “Heel, Cujo. You’re getting a little crazy.”

  He grins, and it does me in, makes my belly flip-flop sixteen different ways. I hate that he has that kind of power over me.

  “Want something to drink?” He pulls off his helmet.

  “Nah, I’m good,” I say, even though I’m not good at all. I hate charity. I’ll buy my own damn drink.

  He strides to the snack machines, and I go to the bathroom. My stomach hurts as I walk inside the stall. I hope it’s cramps, but it’s probably not. It’s probably sheer terror. “Let there be blood,” I whisper again and again like a mantra. Closing my eyes and praying to a god I’m almost sure I don’t believe in, I yank down my pants and sink onto the toilet. I barely dare to look, but I do. My panties are clean. Shit.

  I’m not crazy-town late, okay? Only a few weeks. It could be anything. Hormones. Stress. Motherfucking stress for sure. I mean, Jesus Christ, my mother died. Of course I’m stressed. I knew this one girl who stopped having her period for six months after her family got evicted. True story.

  I pee and yank my pants back up, resisting the urging of the little voice inside my head that tells me I need to buy a pregnancy test. Come on. I’m a few weeks late. Don’t be so dramatic, I retort. Yes, I talk to voices in my head. And yes, I lie to them about how late my period is. No, that doesn’t make me crazy. I don’t think.

  When I walk outside, Dean’s wearing headphones and gazing up at the sky, occasionally bopping to whatever music he’s listening to. I don’t know if “bopping” is actually the word for what he’s doing. It sounds clumsy, and he’s anything but. He’s barely moving, but he’s still graceful. I wish I could dance like that. I take him in like he is art, noting his lean lines and wiry contours, admiring the way his curls fall over the brown of his skin. Smiling, he sways his hips slightly, like he’s with an invisible and very desired partner. Wishing it were me, I go to him. “Hey,” I say, placing my hand on the small of his back since he probably can’t hear me.

  He spins toward me and grabs my hand, starting to do this little jig. “Dance with me, Harley,” he says too loud.

  “No way.” I pull away. “I don’t dance.”

  He yanks the headphones out of his phone so that I can hear the music, some Irish-sounding rock. The lead singer has a brogue, and there are bagpipes involved. “Come on!” he says, reaching for my hand again.

  I panic. Did I mention that I’m terrified of dancing? When I was little, the kids in PE laughed at me for being a klutz, and I guess I believed them. The thought of moving in front of people chills me. Mom’s insistence that I take karate for self-defense was the source of almost every fight we ever had. And Mercy’s frequent, well-intentioned pleas that I join her for yoga have been the cause of more than one almost panic attack. As a rule, I steer the fuck clear of sports, dancing, and anything else that requires coordination.

  “I said no!” I snap, sounding nastier than I mean to.

  He stops dancing. “Whoa, sorry. You really don’t want to dance.”

  “Isn’t that what I
said?”

  Dean lies in the grass, threading his hands behind his head. I feel like I should say I’m sorry, but he seems okay, so I go the vending machine instead and buy a Sprite.

  “I thought you said you weren’t thirsty,” he calls.

  “I changed my mind.” I throw the Sprite back in a few gulps, toss the empty bottle in the trash can, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Join me?” He glances at the place beside him. I almost say no, but I already feel bad about not dancing with him. Instead, I walk over and lie next to him. I’m acutely aware of his breathing, so much so that I find myself synchronizing my breaths with his.

  When I was a kid, Mom took me to church a few times. She said she didn’t personally dig organized religion, but she wanted me to know my options. I remember watching this puppet show about the devil tempting a good little girl to do bad things. He was red with horns and not cute at all. I had no idea my own personal tempter would look like Dean. He’s like candy in human form. It’s hard to keep my tongue off him.

  “What do you see?” I ask because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “What?” he asks.

  “The cloud game, dumb ass. What do the clouds look like to you?”

  He smiles. His teeth are ridiculously white. His canines stick out a little, which makes his smile almost perfect, which is infinitely sexier than totally perfect. Did I mention I have a thing for mouths?

  “Oh, okay.” He laughs. “An ice-skating rhino?”

  “An ice-skating rhino?” I scoff. “Where? I don’t see a rhino.”

  “Isn’t this game supposed to be about imagination? Anything goes? There are no wrong answers?”

  “Well, there were no wrong answers until you said, ‘Ice-skating rhino.’ Now, there are wrong answers.”

  He points at a cloud. “See the horn?”

  I squint. “I’ll give you a triceratops. No way it’s a rhino.”

  “What’s the difference? They both have horns.” Dean sounds a little exasperated, flirtatiously so, like this conversation might turn into a tickle fight if I’m not careful.

  “The difference is one has been extinct for millions of years. You can visit the other at the San Diego Zoo on a Tuesday morning.”

  “What does that have to do with cloud shapes?” Dean asks. “I feel like you’re getting tangential to distract from the real debate.”

  “I feel like you’re using words like ‘tangential’ to impress me.”

  “Are you impressed?”

  “Not a fucking chance, Rhino Boy.” I resist the urge to kiss him and punch him in the arm instead. “You ready?” I stand and dust the grass from my jeans.

  “Ready,” he says, doing the same.

  As we walk back to the bike, a woman passes. She has hair like my mom’s, straight and long. She walks the same, a certain delicacy to her steps. It’s stupid, but for one moment, I think it might really be her. I actually make the “m” sound in the word “mom” before I bite my tongue, reminding myself that Mom is now a jar of ashes tucked into my saddlebag.

  “You okay?” Dean looks at me, concerned. I hate the way he seems to sense every shift in the weather patterns of my mind. He’s like motherfucking Santa. He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.

  “I’m cool.” I shrug. “I think I swallowed a bug.”

  “Protein,” Dean says.

  I’d usually be all over that joke, but I’m so distracted by the mom-woman, who up close looks nothing like her, that I miss it completely. “Yeah.” I nod.

  “You actually think I’m serious?” he asks.

  “About what?”

  “You think I think gnats are a viable source of protein?”

  I watch the woman disappear into the restroom. It almost makes me cry, but then it makes me laugh, because I think some crap about Mom having gone off the eternal public restroom in the sky. Hey, it’s as believable as any other theory I’ve heard. “It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve ever thought,” I say.

  Dean threads his fingers through mine. He pinkie swore he wouldn’t touch me. I glance at my phone to check the time. We’ve been on the road for exactly two hours and thirty-six minutes, and he’s already broken his promise. Still, I cannot bring myself to tell him to let go.

  “You know breaking a pinkie swear is like breaking a promise to the mafia?” I say.

  “So are you going to send someone to bust my kneecaps?”

  “Nah, I’ll do it myself.”

  When he slides his hand out of mine to put on his helmet, my fingers go cold.

  “I’m not surprised you don’t hire people to bust kneecaps. You strike me as the kind of girl who does her own dirty work,” he says, climbing on the motorcycle.

  “What makes you think that?” I fasten my helmet strap and stare at him menacingly until he gets the hint and scoots back. If he thinks I’m letting him drive, he’s nuts.

  “I was with you on that beach, remember?” he says.

  I climb on and start the engine. “You promised to never mention that again!” I yell.

  As I pull out onto the highway, he stays quiet. I’m not sure if he actually didn’t hear me or if he’s being his usual bullheaded self.

  We ride until the sun falls over the edge of the horizon and starts to disappear in a blaze of purple. We pull over at a deserted campground. Twenty dollars for the night, and it even has showers. Not a bad deal as far as lodgings go.

  “If bugs are a good source of protein, I’m in luck because I’m pretty sure I have a few imbedded between my teeth,” I say as I shut down the engine. I’m 100 percent determined not to let the last topic we discussed be the one that opens our conversation now.

  “Let’s see,” Dean says, undoing his helmet.

  I smile for him, chimpanzee style.

  He comes in close enough that I can feel his breath burning my face. “Ew,” he says. “Yep. Either that’s a green beetle wing, or you have some lettuce left over from lunch. Not sure which.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth self-consciously.

  “Totally kidding,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t have Asperger’s?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?” I hang my helmet on the handlebars. The helmet used to be Mom’s. It has her name painted on the back. Mary.

  “You’re kinda a classic case. People with Asperger’s are brilliant and utterly amazing but don’t always get when people are joking.”

  “You’re a dick,” I say.

  “What?” he says. “I’d still adore you if you had Asperger’s. In fact, I’d think you were even cooler than I already do. People with Asperger’s are the next step in the evolution of the human race.”

  “Yeah?” I say, rustling around in the saddlebag. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not the missing link.” I toss the ultra-compact tent I bought for the trip on the ground. “Pitch that, Science Boy.”

  “I thought I was Rhino Boy.” He unwraps the tent.

  “Same difference.” I pull out the two sleeping bags, also ultra-compact.

  “Not really,” Dean says. “If you stuck with one pet name, it would start to feel like affection. Right now, your nicknames just feel like mockery.”

  “That’s how they’re supposed to feel.” I toss his sleeping bag, which rolled up is about the size of a soccer ball, his way. It hits him in the gut.

  “Thanks.” Dean rubs his stomach, feigning injury. It’s altogether unconvincing. “And I didn’t say you were the missing link. I said you were the next step in human evolution. The missing link is the last step not the next step.”

  “Do you ever shut up?”

  “Not unless I’m sleeping.”

  I bustle around setting up camp, trying not to notice Dean. My thighs and ass are sore, but it’s a good hurt
, the kind I imagine cowboys used to feel after rustling cattle or whatever the hell it is they did. Night is just starting to fall, and moonlight drifts through the branches, making webs of light on the ground. We have driven only one afternoon, but we are worlds away from the ocean. The landscape is mostly red dirt and scrub oaks and rocks. I worry about rattlesnakes crawling into my sleeping bag. I will definitely make Dean be the one to sleep outside the tent. I hate to go all damsel in distress on him. I’m a feminist, after all, just like my mother before me. Still, once in a while, I’ve been known to fall back on traditional gender roles. Usually when spiders need to be smooshed.

  “You hungry?” Dean asks.

  “I could eat a rhino,” I say. “Or a triceratops. There’s really no difference.”

  He smiles, ripping open a bag of beef jerky. “I’m pretty sure this is one of the two.” He holds out the jerky. I bury my hand in the bag.

  After dinner, which consists of jerky, apples, and a healthy dose of water, we sit by the fire pit while Dean plays his ukulele. There is no fire, just a pit, because it’s so hot we can barely breathe as it is. Overhead, the moon hangs blue.

  “What made you decide to play the ukulele?” I ask as he mindlessly strums.

  “I wanted to pick up chicks,” he says.

  “Good call,” I say. “I’ve yet to meet a woman who can resist the allure of a man holding a ukulele.” I glance at him sideways. He’s got that glow about him that people get when they are outside on a moonlit night. He looks otherworldly.

  He nods. “So I’ve discovered.”

  Suddenly, I’m picturing Dean with thousands of ukulele-hungry groupies hanging off him, and I’m jealous. It’s stupid, I know, but I feel a little sick. “So how many girls have you lured to your lair?” I try to sound casual when I say it, staring up at the sky like his answer is no big deal to me. The stars pulse, sending out an SOS.

  “What?” he asks. He must not believe my “this isn’t an important conversation” act because he stops strumming.

  “How many?” I ask again.