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At the sight of endless amounts of road in front of him (and he means endless, just nothing but darkness because it’s late and there aren’t any streetlights or other cars), there is a twisting in his stomach. He names the feeling excitement and contentment and nerves all rolled into one sort of tingling feeling somewhere in his gut.
He’s driving fast and the road keeps going straight. It looks like it could go on forever like this. He feels like maybe he could go on forever like this with nothing in the world besides his foot on the gas and a careless hand resting on the steering wheel. He likes the idea of just never stopping. Of going miles and miles and miles and never pressing the brakes, never turning the wheel. Just going aimlessly straight forever.
Then she wakes up in the passenger seat and rubs her eyes and stretches her legs out in front of her. Her skin glows green in the soft light of the speedometer and the radio. The radio which is playing an oldies station really, really softly so all that can really be heard is the bass and every once in a while bits and pieces of a guitar solo. She yawns and he tries not to think.
He hasn’t asked questions. He didn’t ask questions when she showed up at his doorstep a year after he moved to Connecticut. He didn’t ask questions when she was pulling her wedding ring on and off while leaning on the doorjamb and looking down at her feet, saying, “Take me somewhere.” He didn’t ask questions when she cried for an hour in his bathroom, waiting for him to pack a bag. And he doesn’t ask questions now when they’re more than 400 miles into this trip and he still has no idea where he’s going.
He’s just going west. That’s what she said, “Let’s just head west.” Like this was some sort of movie where people really did just head west and that was it. And they could leave their jobs behind and their husbands and everything and just go west. He’s been lonely so he listens and only takes westbound routes. When she pressed the button on his clock for the electronic compass, she smiled when the W appeared. So he keeps going west.
She doesn’t look like someone who’s chosen the wrong life. She doesn’t look shattered or anything like a house that’s just collapsed on itself. She doesn’t look like the sort of person who just heads west with a friend she hasn’t really talked to in a year. A friend who might just still be completely in love with every stupid thing she does. She doesn’t look like the sort of girl who up and leaves her husband after a year to head west. She looks like Pam except maybe her eyes are a little less green. She looks like Pam except for the way her entire body has this really subtle quake to it now whenever she moves.
Back in Connecticut, back at his apartment, she had said something as she wiped her nose with a rough paper towel. She had said, “I was wrong.” He wanted to say that he wouldn’t. He wanted to say that it really didn’t matter anymore. He wanted to cry and say that she should leave and that he just doesn’t love her anymore, not right now. He wanted to be upset and stand with his backbone straight and tell her that she can’t just fall back on him when everything else falls apart. Because he’s had everything fall apart and she was nowhere. Of course he hadn’t done any of these things. He just lifted his bag off of his bed and said, “Let’s go.” (because he does love her, all the time, and a year without her was-)
She talked for the first few hours. She tried to tell him about her life this past year. How she married Roy and thought it would be everything she wanted. How once the wedding stuff was finally all done, she started taking a couple of art classes at night. But then Roy thought they should save up for a new car because a truck isn’t really a family car and that’s what she wanted, right? A family? So she dropped the classes and put the money towards a sedan. (She really, honestly did not even want to picture herself in a minivan.) Then she tried to get pregnant for a few months, but Roy was always so- And she didn’t know what word to put here so she just waved her hands in front of her and tried to keep her bottom lip from trembling. The story ends with Roy confessing he didn’t even want kids which led to days of fighting until she just left and drove to Connecticut. And finally, as if it were the most important thing she could ever say, “I want things, Jim. I really, really want things.”
Then he’d sprayed the windshield with wiper fluid and watched the blades move back and forth. He said, “Yeah.” He watched her pull off her ring and set it on the dash, watching it until it slid forward and she reached out her hands to catch it. She didn’t put it back on and he held her hand for a while after that.
She looked out the window as it started to rain and told him that she thought the word ‘divorce’ was the ugliest word she’d ever heard.
He told her Pam was the prettiest one he’d heard, because it might be true and because it made her smile.
But the smile had been sad and she shook her head and said, “I never wanted to be this girl.”
He hadn’t said anything in response to that, because he realized that she’d never been alone and he didn’t know how to teach her about being alone.
They’ve been driving for hours. How many, he isn’t sure. Six maybe or seven. Long enough for his leg to start cramping. Long enough to have used up almost three quarters of a tank of gas. Long enough for her to take off her shoes and her sweater and curl her feet under her. Long enough for him to start wanting to ask questions.
It’s early spring and she loves early spring. He remembers her coming into work one day so excited because flowers were blooming and the air was getting warmer. She told him it felt like you just got to start over. Is that was she wants now, to start over? He thinks about asking her, but she looks tired still. She keeps blinking her eyes really hard over and over like she’s trying to get something out of her head.
He opens his mouth and closes it a few times. He makes himself content with just staring into this tunnel of trees they’re driving through.
She gives him answers without the questions though.
She says, “You were always there. You’re like this anchor or something that will just always hold me down and keep me where I need to be.”
If he were in a different mood, he’d make a joke about Michael and leadership and that night- That horrible, awful night that he’d honestly almost forgotten about two months ago. Until he’d seen one of those cruise line ads on TV one night and it had all come back to him in a horrible fit of trying not to call her.
He had called her though. Because he couldn’t stop himself and before he could think, the phone was to his ear and he was listening to the sound of it ringing. Roy had answered the phone, his voice all gruff and manly and so he hung up and shut his eyes tight, feeling liquid form between his eyelids. So he called someone else. A new girl who he could see himself loving. (he didn’t though- just didn’t)
But now he’s here in this car with her and she’s sitting with her mouth pressed against the seatbelt, looking out of the window like she’s so lost. And for years, he’s been trying to help her find her way out.
The trees and the lines on the road and the darkness start to blur a little and he feels his head get a little heavier. He looks at the clock and it’s almost three in the morning. He thinks if he just stopped for a cup of coffee, they could go all night. Maybe he read too much Kerouac in college, but he feels like this trip is going to change his life and that he shouldn’t stop. Ever. They should keep going. He imagines driving until they hit the Pacific Ocean and she would see it for the first time and squish her toes into the sand with the sun spilling all over her face. Yeah, he just needs a little caffeine and then they can keep going west. Just keep heading west forever and ever and ever. The two of them in this little metal house, taking them far away. He doesn’t need anything else. Not sleep or money or food. Just her and the road. Going west until they can’t go west anymore. And even then, maybe they could get on a boat and cross the Pacific and just keep on going.
She rolls her head on the headrest to look at him. “Do you want to stop?”
Stop. No, he doesn’t ever want to stop. The last thing he wants to do is stop this car right now.
He shakes his head, says, “No,” and then yawns.
“It’s late. You’re tired. We should stop.” Her voice sounds like something sugary and smooth when she speaks like she is now, all soft and gentle and a little concerned.
“I don’t want to stop,” he says and looks over at her to meet her eyes. So she can see just how badly he does not want to have to stop even if he’s falling asleep.
“Jim,” she says and pauses for a second to really look at his face, “I think we should stop before you crash us into a tree.”
He looks at the road in front of him and then back at her and they’re both so- “Okay, yeah. We’ll stop when we see a place.”
She smiles so slowly at him and then rolls her head back so she’s looking straight ahead. And he loves her so much that he just doesn’t ever want to have to stop this car.
After a few miles, there’s a motel. One of those motels that people live in with kitchenettes and weekly rates and a funny smell that follows you into every corner. They get the one room left in the place and the key jingles as they walk up the stairs and open the door.
He pushes it open slowly, looking at her like this is something monumental. She smiles a little and follows him into the dark room.
It’s small and when he clicks on the bedside lamp, he sees the muted orange carpet and laughs because it reminds him so much of the carpet that was in his living room when he was five. The TV only gets three stations. Two of which are public access channels showing weird religious shows. The other is showing some movie from the 70’s that he’s never heard of. He leaves it on anyway just to fill the room with sound.
They stand awkwardly for a few moments before she lifts herself on the balls of her feet just a little and says, “I’m just going to-” And she motions to the bathroom with her thumbs.
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
She grabs some clothes and slips off her shoes, padding softly in the bathroom. He watches the door until a thin strip of light appears in the crack beneath it. He listens to the water in the sink running and the sound of zippers and fabric and skin.
This is so much worse than just sitting at a desk ten feet away from her.
He clicks off the TV then and quickly takes off his jeans and lays them on a chair next to the bed. He thinks about offering to sleep on the floor, but there’s a stain on the carpet and he isn’t trying to figure out what it is. He wishes they had just stayed in that car. They could’ve pulled over to the side of the road or the next rest stop and put their seats back to sleep. Now he’s standing next to a bed that’s probably going to be too short for his legs and too cramped for two people who are just friends. Just friends. Nothing more. They’re just friends. All they are is friends.
And right on cue, she comes out of the bathroom in pajama bottoms and a camisole the color of early morning, that rosy sort of pinkish orange.
Just friends.
But she’s left her husband and now she’s riding shotgun in his Corolla, going west without a destination. Sleeping in his passenger seat and sharing motel rooms with him. She’s left her husband and now she’s-
“I don’t want to be second best.” His voice is surprisingly loud when he speaks and she jumps as she’s putting her clothes from today back in her bag. And he isn’t sure what he means or if he even thinks that he’s second best to her. But he feels like- Should he have waited for her? Should he be so willing to do this right now for her? She married someone else even though she knew. She knew.
“You’re- Jim, you’re not second best.” She’s standing on the other side of the bed with her hands on her hips and her skin looks really beautiful right now.
“It’s just, Pam, you marry him and then you just run back to me like I’m just always going to be waiting. I feel like-”
“I didn’t come to you, thinking that you’d be waiting. It was just a chance I had to take. And I was so afraid that I’d knock on your door and some woman would answer and I wouldn’t even know- I didn’t expect you to wait for me or to still-” She can’t say it, can’t say that word that floats around in his head all the time when she’s around.
“Okay,” is all he says before he pulls the covers back and slides under them.
She stands there still, chewing on her lip and looking like he- He really wants to touch her right now. It makes his stomach push up into his chest until it crowds his heart and his ribs hurt.
After a minute, she climbs into bed next to him and her calf touches his under the covers. He turns out the light and she whispers in the dark, “Is this okay?”
He just says, “Yeah,” and turns over onto his side. He can’t do this. He really, really cannot do this right now. He wants to get up and sleep in the car. She smells like soap and toothpaste. And, God, he wants to taste her. Really, actually taste her.
He doesn’t sleep. Just closes his eyes and thinks about those endless stretches of road.
Then she moves. She inches her way closer and closer. Until she’s pressing herself against his back, her nose against his spine, her legs against his. She breathes in against the soft cotton of his t-shirt and he can feel every part of her. One of her hands rests on his shoulder blade and she’s gotten herself so close to him that her lips are resting against his back.
He really doesn’t sleep.
But she sleeps so heavily that he can’t move for hours. His hip starts to hurt from being on his side all night and he really wants to turn over onto his other side. But her hands and her legs and her breasts are all pressed so tightly against him that he can’t. So he doesn’t.
The sun starts to flood the room through the its only window. It’s early still. Around seven. They’ve- She’s only been sleeping for four hours. But he turns just a little, enough to make her body move over a bit in her sleep. And then he has enough room to turn onto his other side. His nose brushes hers as he does and her eyes flutter open. She smiles slowly and sleepily and he can’t think so he just kisses her. Just lightly on the smile that’s there on her face as she stretches her body out. He kisses her and says, “Morning.” Her mouth is warm like he remembers.
Her eyes open and she looks so sad then. “Jim…”
Suddenly he can think and he’s saying, “I’m sorry. God, Pam, I’m so sorry. I just-”
It’s too soon. She isn’t even really divorced yet. She’s still married to him. She’s still someone’s wife. It could be years before she’s ready to be kissed like that in the morning. But he wants her to be ready now. Because he’s been ready for so long and there really is this ache in his chest whenever she’s around and he can’t touch her or- He’s so ready for this. But she isn’t and he’s gotten used to waiting. Almost doesn’t know how to live if he isn’t waiting. So he says that he’s sorry again and almost falls off the bed when he tries to move farther away from her.
She takes a long shower that morning and he pretends he doesn’t hear her sobbing while she washes her hair. She comes out, wet and forcing a smile.
He says, “Ready?”
And she nods, grabbing her bag with a shaky hand.
Then they’re back in the car where things feel sort of weightless and perfect. Like nothing could hurt them, they can’t even hurt each other in this car. She just hums along to the radio and he tells her stories about Stamford and his childhood. Only the funniest stories, because he loves the way her laugh sounds as it bounces off of upholstery.
The odometer hits 600 miles and she says out of nowhere during a commercial break, “I love you, okay?”
His lips press together in a wide smile and he keeps his eyes on the road. “Okay.”
West. They’re heading west. And maybe for now, it’s okay that she’s still married and that they’re just friends. Because she loves him and they’re heading west and it doesn’t matter where they end up or if they ever stop driving. He’s content to just keep going west with her forever.
unfold is the author of 102 other stories.
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