sometimes life is like a movie.
"This is therapy."
His feet were hitting the pavement, steps faster than mine, strides longer than mine, so I was practically jogging to keep up. Flip-flops, an old Ryan Cabrera t-shirt, some tiny shorts and an over sized hoodie with my fingers shoved inside the pockets. In Maryland, it was somewhere in the seventies outside, but still I was already shivering. Back home, it was already muggy and summer was weaving its way into the mornings, leaving the windows of my car steamed and foggy before school. Home. Was it really, though? Or was home this place, the place I left? Who knew. I was lost, sort of torn between them both. And even there with him, I had to wonder.
When my fingers pulled the door handle open I knew I should stop, there on the curb beside his car, and change my mind. Not get in that passenger seat. I knew I was making a mistake. This entire night was a mistake. I could see the future, and in that future, I was crying. Over him. I knew this would only make it harder to leave. To go back home. Or, to the place I lived.
But still, I slid into the seat and shut the door. The interior smelled like any old car from a used car lot would smell, but his scent was laced with it. Cigarette smoke and cologne. The fabric softener from his clothes.
"Seatbelt."
I clicked it into place as he spoke the word, my muscles shaking. Shaking so hard, I had to press my hands against my knees to keep them from knocking together. I felt like I was eleven again, being strapped into my first rollercoaster ride. I remember even my insides were shaking. That was happening again now.
"Where are we going?"
"For a drive."
I was terrified of the unknown. Especially with him.
"We can't be too long, Shannon will worry."
I knew my best friend was in the basement of her house, wringing her hands already. I knew she was wondering if I was going to come back alive. I knew, because I was wondering the same thing. He started th engine and the radio came to life, blasting terrible techno beats through the speakers. I lifted my hands to cover my ears. He smiled over at me, and threw it into drive.
In the basement, against his chest, he had slid out from under me and sat up.
"Let's go for a drive," he'd suggested, or, demanded, getting up off the bed and holding out his hand to me. I looked at his palm, then at his face.
"No, I don't want to leave, it's 3 o'clock in the morning."
"Come on, we're going."
"No, seriously, it's stupid."
He was a trouble magnet. Police could sense him from miles away. That was just what I needed, for him to get pulled over at 3 o'clock in the morning, a week after being arrested. The perfect end to my night: a stint in the Anne Arundle County Police Department with my Two-Day-Boyfriend.
Three years away from him had made all the difference. Last time I'd seen his eyes that close to mine, it was out front of my old high school, freshman year.
"I just... think we should... go out with other people."
Last time I'd seen his eyes that close to mine, he was telling me it was over.
His voice was all I'd had for the three years after that. Eight hundred miles separated us after the move and his phone calls kept me alive. I listened to him change. Three years into it all, I was back beside him again, the tension of those years and those miles now lingering between us as he sped out of Shannon's neighborhood.
I wasn't fourteen anymore, and niether was he. We were nearly adults; him a week from eighteen and me halfway into my seventeenth year and completely aware of his power over me. Three years was a lot for us. And it all came down to this.
"Listen, I love you, but if we get pulled over, I'm gonna straight up kill you."
He laughed but I barely heard it over the noise. I kept my palms against my ears. He reached over and grabbed one of my hands, lacing his fingers with mine.
Cut to us, three years before, in the hallway of our high school. I brushed my fingers against his, hesitant but craving the contact. He pulled away.
"I don't do that." He'd told me.
Fast forward three years to now, in his car, and he's grasping my hand in his, the spedometer inching up towards fifty. My heart was beginning to rattle inside my ribcage. With fear. With overwhelming insecurity that was building up more and more with each passing second.
"Please just take me back." I yelled at him over the music, my voice strained, tears welling up. Angry ones. Not like the ones I'd cried for him before. "Take me back to Shannon's and leave me alone."
I was yelling so loud that the music seemed like a whisper. I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on tighter. A tear escaped, and my throat was burning.
"Liam! Take me back! This is ridiculous! What the fuck is your problem?"
He hung a left, nearly fishtailing the back end of the car with the sharpness of the turn. I went rigid in my seat. I shook, harder, more violently. My jaw was chattering.
"What's wrong?" He was screaming right back at me, and finally freed my hand. "Why are you always like this?"
"I just don't want to get killed!"
And somehow, it was a screaming match, and his eyes were barely on the road, and my heart was barely staying inside my chest.
"I fucking hate you sometimes! I never wanna see you again!"
"No, no, fuck you, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you yelling at me?!"
"Yes I'm fucking yelling at--" His hands returned to the steering wheel, and he shut his lips, hard. I was breathless. My blood was pulsing in my ears. The music stung my senses. "No, I'm not." His voice was soft again.
"Take me back, now."
He touched his foot to the brake and pulled off the main road. The road we were on was dark, unlit. The clock in the dash read 3:22. I swallowed.
"Just one second."
His foot was hard on the gas again before I even had time to breathe in. I saw everything I'd built for myself, every second of it, start to fall as he wove through the dark street, the threat of an oncoming car beginning to make my heart speed up again. I shook. And shook. I grabbed his arm, nails digging into his skin from fear.
"Stop the car!"
"Why can't you just live?"
"STOP THE CAR."
I thought I might have been drawing blood by the time he turned around in a driveway and eased back onto the main road. I tried not to watch the spedometer. I stared quietly out the window.
"This is therapy," he had said as we'd walked out to his car. "You need this."
Our old middle school passed by. I breathed. I could feel him fuming. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.
"I love you," I heard my voice come from my mouth, and I wanted to press my lips together and shut it up. "I really do, I really love you so much it's digusting. Even now, I love you. Even when I hate you, I love you."
His grip loosened. He stopped at a red light.
"I know."
"I just don't know how I'm going to deal with this, come Sunday and everything goes back to how it's been for the last three years."
He took my hand, our fingers brushing the gear shift between us.
"I'm sorry."
He killed the engine in front of Shannon's house, and my heart had slowed, finally. We sat in silence, seatbelts buckled, listening to our own breathing.
"Sometimes I wish I would just die in a tragic accident, so I won't have to kill myself." His voice moved smoothly through the quiet of the car, engine ticking quietly as it cooled down. My insides dropped to my flip-flops.
"Why would you say something like that?" I didn't mean for my voice to sound so unsteady.
A breath of a laugh escaped his lips. The air in the car seemed to go a little stale. Before he could answer me, his phone was vibrating in his pocket, and he sighed, fishing it out. The number on the screen sent a look of frustration over his face. Angry, even. He flipped it open.
"What the hell do you want, you've got ten seconds," he snapped into the phone, and I could hear the girl's drunken laughter from the other end of the line.
"Liam, mmm, Liam, we just wanted to say we loved you," she was slurring, loudly enough for me to hear. His lips were pressed into a hard frown. He snapped the phone closed. The car was quiet again.
"Let's go inside."
The future I saw began to unfold itself by the time he was laying beside me again, in Shannon's basement. I was crying, hot tears falling down my cheeks and dripping off my chin and onto his shirt. He watched me, listening, breathing.
"I'm always waiting for something to go wrong. When everything is right, something always goes wrong."
"You can't think that way."
"How can I not? You just told me you felt like you didn't even know me. What do you call the last three years? Was that nothing?"
"I don't know."
"Please know."
"Sara, come here."
And I was against his chest, crying, wondering how three years of praying for this very moment could somehow become such a mess.
On the plane ride home, I touched my lips and wished for one more kiss that I would never have.
His feet were hitting the pavement, steps faster than mine, strides longer than mine, so I was practically jogging to keep up. Flip-flops, an old Ryan Cabrera t-shirt, some tiny shorts and an over sized hoodie with my fingers shoved inside the pockets. In Maryland, it was somewhere in the seventies outside, but still I was already shivering. Back home, it was already muggy and summer was weaving its way into the mornings, leaving the windows of my car steamed and foggy before school. Home. Was it really, though? Or was home this place, the place I left? Who knew. I was lost, sort of torn between them both. And even there with him, I had to wonder.
When my fingers pulled the door handle open I knew I should stop, there on the curb beside his car, and change my mind. Not get in that passenger seat. I knew I was making a mistake. This entire night was a mistake. I could see the future, and in that future, I was crying. Over him. I knew this would only make it harder to leave. To go back home. Or, to the place I lived.
But still, I slid into the seat and shut the door. The interior smelled like any old car from a used car lot would smell, but his scent was laced with it. Cigarette smoke and cologne. The fabric softener from his clothes.
"Seatbelt."
I clicked it into place as he spoke the word, my muscles shaking. Shaking so hard, I had to press my hands against my knees to keep them from knocking together. I felt like I was eleven again, being strapped into my first rollercoaster ride. I remember even my insides were shaking. That was happening again now.
"Where are we going?"
"For a drive."
I was terrified of the unknown. Especially with him.
"We can't be too long, Shannon will worry."
I knew my best friend was in the basement of her house, wringing her hands already. I knew she was wondering if I was going to come back alive. I knew, because I was wondering the same thing. He started th engine and the radio came to life, blasting terrible techno beats through the speakers. I lifted my hands to cover my ears. He smiled over at me, and threw it into drive.
In the basement, against his chest, he had slid out from under me and sat up.
"Let's go for a drive," he'd suggested, or, demanded, getting up off the bed and holding out his hand to me. I looked at his palm, then at his face.
"No, I don't want to leave, it's 3 o'clock in the morning."
"Come on, we're going."
"No, seriously, it's stupid."
He was a trouble magnet. Police could sense him from miles away. That was just what I needed, for him to get pulled over at 3 o'clock in the morning, a week after being arrested. The perfect end to my night: a stint in the Anne Arundle County Police Department with my Two-Day-Boyfriend.
Three years away from him had made all the difference. Last time I'd seen his eyes that close to mine, it was out front of my old high school, freshman year.
"I just... think we should... go out with other people."
Last time I'd seen his eyes that close to mine, he was telling me it was over.
His voice was all I'd had for the three years after that. Eight hundred miles separated us after the move and his phone calls kept me alive. I listened to him change. Three years into it all, I was back beside him again, the tension of those years and those miles now lingering between us as he sped out of Shannon's neighborhood.
I wasn't fourteen anymore, and niether was he. We were nearly adults; him a week from eighteen and me halfway into my seventeenth year and completely aware of his power over me. Three years was a lot for us. And it all came down to this.
"Listen, I love you, but if we get pulled over, I'm gonna straight up kill you."
He laughed but I barely heard it over the noise. I kept my palms against my ears. He reached over and grabbed one of my hands, lacing his fingers with mine.
Cut to us, three years before, in the hallway of our high school. I brushed my fingers against his, hesitant but craving the contact. He pulled away.
"I don't do that." He'd told me.
Fast forward three years to now, in his car, and he's grasping my hand in his, the spedometer inching up towards fifty. My heart was beginning to rattle inside my ribcage. With fear. With overwhelming insecurity that was building up more and more with each passing second.
"Please just take me back." I yelled at him over the music, my voice strained, tears welling up. Angry ones. Not like the ones I'd cried for him before. "Take me back to Shannon's and leave me alone."
I was yelling so loud that the music seemed like a whisper. I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on tighter. A tear escaped, and my throat was burning.
"Liam! Take me back! This is ridiculous! What the fuck is your problem?"
He hung a left, nearly fishtailing the back end of the car with the sharpness of the turn. I went rigid in my seat. I shook, harder, more violently. My jaw was chattering.
"What's wrong?" He was screaming right back at me, and finally freed my hand. "Why are you always like this?"
"I just don't want to get killed!"
And somehow, it was a screaming match, and his eyes were barely on the road, and my heart was barely staying inside my chest.
"I fucking hate you sometimes! I never wanna see you again!"
"No, no, fuck you, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you yelling at me?!"
"Yes I'm fucking yelling at--" His hands returned to the steering wheel, and he shut his lips, hard. I was breathless. My blood was pulsing in my ears. The music stung my senses. "No, I'm not." His voice was soft again.
"Take me back, now."
He touched his foot to the brake and pulled off the main road. The road we were on was dark, unlit. The clock in the dash read 3:22. I swallowed.
"Just one second."
His foot was hard on the gas again before I even had time to breathe in. I saw everything I'd built for myself, every second of it, start to fall as he wove through the dark street, the threat of an oncoming car beginning to make my heart speed up again. I shook. And shook. I grabbed his arm, nails digging into his skin from fear.
"Stop the car!"
"Why can't you just live?"
"STOP THE CAR."
I thought I might have been drawing blood by the time he turned around in a driveway and eased back onto the main road. I tried not to watch the spedometer. I stared quietly out the window.
"This is therapy," he had said as we'd walked out to his car. "You need this."
Our old middle school passed by. I breathed. I could feel him fuming. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.
"I love you," I heard my voice come from my mouth, and I wanted to press my lips together and shut it up. "I really do, I really love you so much it's digusting. Even now, I love you. Even when I hate you, I love you."
His grip loosened. He stopped at a red light.
"I know."
"I just don't know how I'm going to deal with this, come Sunday and everything goes back to how it's been for the last three years."
He took my hand, our fingers brushing the gear shift between us.
"I'm sorry."
He killed the engine in front of Shannon's house, and my heart had slowed, finally. We sat in silence, seatbelts buckled, listening to our own breathing.
"Sometimes I wish I would just die in a tragic accident, so I won't have to kill myself." His voice moved smoothly through the quiet of the car, engine ticking quietly as it cooled down. My insides dropped to my flip-flops.
"Why would you say something like that?" I didn't mean for my voice to sound so unsteady.
A breath of a laugh escaped his lips. The air in the car seemed to go a little stale. Before he could answer me, his phone was vibrating in his pocket, and he sighed, fishing it out. The number on the screen sent a look of frustration over his face. Angry, even. He flipped it open.
"What the hell do you want, you've got ten seconds," he snapped into the phone, and I could hear the girl's drunken laughter from the other end of the line.
"Liam, mmm, Liam, we just wanted to say we loved you," she was slurring, loudly enough for me to hear. His lips were pressed into a hard frown. He snapped the phone closed. The car was quiet again.
"Let's go inside."
The future I saw began to unfold itself by the time he was laying beside me again, in Shannon's basement. I was crying, hot tears falling down my cheeks and dripping off my chin and onto his shirt. He watched me, listening, breathing.
"I'm always waiting for something to go wrong. When everything is right, something always goes wrong."
"You can't think that way."
"How can I not? You just told me you felt like you didn't even know me. What do you call the last three years? Was that nothing?"
"I don't know."
"Please know."
"Sara, come here."
And I was against his chest, crying, wondering how three years of praying for this very moment could somehow become such a mess.
On the plane ride home, I touched my lips and wished for one more kiss that I would never have.