But nothing lasts forever, and there are no happy endings.
I am stopped at a red light just where Santa Ana becomes Irvine, near the 55 freeway. I look at the car next to me. An old lady is driving. She’s holding the wheel with both hands. Next to her, his head thrown back and his mouth half-open like he’s sleeping, is an old man, or maybe a corpse.
Even if the union lasted fifty years, even if a couple’s four hands grow mottled by complimentary liver spots, even if their teeth darken to matching shades of yellow like old piano keys, even if the anniversary is celebrated with silver, somebody dies first.
???
On Saturday morning, Seth picks me up just after seven o’clock. He’s already cruised through Starbucks, and I note with surprise that there are two drinks in the cup holders.
“You got me a drink?”
“ ’Course I did,” Seth says, leaning across the stick shift to kiss me. His lips are warm from the coffee. “You must think I’m a total dick.”
I fasten my seatbelt and sip the latte through the slit in the plastic lid. It’s hot and foamy and vanilla, my favorite. “Thank you,” I say.
“No worries.” Seth heads toward the freeway. I’m cold, so I hold the cup in both hands. The windshield wipers clear my view every few seconds. It’s not raining hard, just a misty drizzle, and the forecast says it should be clear before noon.
“So where are we going?”
“It’s called the Bridge to Nowhere.” Seth steps hard on the gas when we get to the on-ramp, zipping past cars in the right lane and zigzagging across the four lanes to the carpool lane on the far left. “It’s way the hell out past Azusa.”
I have never been to Azusa, even though I’ve lived my whole life in Irvine. Actually, I haven’t been many places farther than the twenty-minute driving radius around my house, except for a few weekend trips to San Diego, the week we drove up the coast to San Francisco, and the time my mom took me to Rome. I almost ask where Azusa is, but I don’t want Seth to know how stupid I am about geography, so I say nothing and settle into my role as passenger. Seth turns on music, the electric computer crap he likes, and it’s nice. Rain spatters the windshields; the wipers clear it away. Again. Again.
There’s no traffic, practically, and it feels good to drive together, to be heading out of town. The music is too loud but I leave it alone. It’s enough that Seth remembered what kind of coffee I like.
We drive toward the hills. Seth’s hand reaches across and rests on my thigh. It’s warm like my coffee.
I wish we could drive forever, not because I like driving so much, but because this is perfect, or as close to perfect as I’ve ever felt—the weight and warmth of Seth’s hand. The latte. The forethought and planning that went into today. The sensation of having been chosen, of being wanted. Of being exactly right.
The rain softens and slows until it stops, and a shaft of light pierces through the clouds. It’s almost ridiculous how amazing it seems when a rainbow appears right in front of us, framed like a picture in the windshield.
“Look!” I say.
“I fucking hate rainbows.”
“No one hates rainbows. They’re rainbows. They’re amazing. How can you hate rainbows?” I’m practically sputtering.
“God, Neen, you’re so easy,” Seth says, and he laughs and squeezes my thigh. “I’m just kidding.” His smile is nice.
I lay my hand on top of his hand, and he spreads his fingers so mine can web in between his.
In Azusa, we stop at a drugstore to pick up cold bottles of water. “Maybe go get some sunscreen,” he says at the last minute, right before the checker rings us up.
“Back of the store,” she says, bored. “By the pharmacy.”
“I’ll meet you at the car,” Seth says.
There are like thirty different kinds of sunscreen. I pick one that says “waterproof” in case it rains again or something. The line up front has grown, so I go to the pharmacy counter to pay.
There’s one person ahead of me. She’s peeling bills from a roll, counting off fives and ones. “Do you want to talk to the pharmacist?” asks the cashier. He’s an old white guy with one of those monstrous guts.
“Okay,” says the girl, and she pushes the money toward the register. He takes it and gives her a handful of change and slides a box over to her. Then she steps to the side to wait. I put my sunscreen on the counter, but glance over to look at her purchase.
The box is in front of her. It’s violet and white with a green arc over the letters that read Plan B One-Step, and beneath, in pink, Emergency Contraceptive.
The pharmacist comes over, this completely generic-looking woman who is older than twenty and younger than fifty, lank dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. “You ever used this before?” she asks the girl.
“Seven dollars and sixty-three cents,” potbelly guy says to me, and I hold out my ATM card, all my attention on the conversation happening beside me.
“No,” the girl whispers.
“Just swipe the card,” potbelly guy tells me.
“It’s just one pill,” the pharmacist says. “You take it by mouth within seventy-two hours of unprotected sex. Has it been less than seventy-two hours?”
“Um,” says the girl. “I think so. Yes.”
“It’s asking for your PIN,” the cashier prompts me.
“The sooner you take it after unprotected intercourse, the more effective it is,” the pharmacist says. “The pill contains levonorgestrel, the same as what’s in birth-control pills. It’s just a concentrated version of the same thing. Okay?”
The girl nods. I’ve keyed in my PIN, and now the cashier is holding out my receipt.
“Will it hurt?”
“Common side effects include nausea, some abdominal pain, fatigue, headaches, and changes in your menstrual cycle. You might be dizzy. If you vomit within two hours of taking the pill, you may need to speak with a doctor about getting another dose.”
“Will there be anything else?” The potbellied cashier looks annoyed, even though there’s no one in line behind me.
“No,” I say. “Thanks.” I turn to go and look back to see the girl slipping the box, furtively, into her bag as though she’s stealing it, even though I saw her pay for it already.
???
We drive and drive. The road turns to dirt and we drive more. We roll the windows down and breathe in wet-dirt, my favorite smell. How can dirt smell clean? But it does.