Morning rolls around way too quickly for my liking. The shower is making an awful hum and Blair’s no longer by my side. I stretch my arms out and relish the aches that are a result of the evening’s antics, and not the ones caused by the crash. Can you have good and bad aches? I’m pretty sure I could get used to the ones she causes. I roll onto my side, noticing that her cell is lit up. I don’t mean to be nosey but I catch that the screen has my mom's name across it, and I’m instantly at war with myself. I want to see what my mom’s texting my girlfriend, but I don’t want to do anything that would break Blair’s trust. I’m pretty sure reading her text message is recipe for disaster, so against my instincts I turn over and try ignoring it. I’m flirting with the idea of getting dressed when I hear the faint noise of her singing in the shower. My whole body heats as I strain to listen to what it is that she’s singing; the din of the shower is muffling it and making it hard to decipher, so I sneak like a complete creeper into the bathroom and lower myself onto the toilet seat while I listen to her sing the chorus of Hinder’s, Better Than Me. She’s good. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, she gives off the vibe that she would be ridiculously talented at anything she tries. I close my eyes listening to her voice and let it wash over me; I’ve always liked this song. I make a mental note to learn the music and suddenly I’m not here anymore. Instead, I’m sitting in my bathroom at the pool house, watching her brace against the answers to the questions she’s asking about my dad and the bruises on my ribs. I blink rapidly, trying to focus the haze of images that play in my mind. I think I remember a party and her being wasted after singing the cup song. I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks or if it’s an actual memory. My temples start to ache where I’m pushing my fingers into the pressure points, trying to coax out more of my subconscious but get nothing for my efforts. I’m beyond pissed at this situation now. I just want to be able to remember my life, even if it is a pretty shitty one.
The steam forming in the tiny room is damp on my skin. I figure that as long I’m in here, I should make the most of it and hijack her shower. I pull the curtain back ready for her to shriek at me, but her back is turned while she’s soaping up her hair, still singing to herself. I watch as the suds slide down her back and over her ass.
This was definitely one of my better ideas.
I step in behind her, and she starts as I press my front to her back, circling her waist with my arms and telling her to keep singing. I close my eyes and stand holding her as I feel the warmth of the water and the heat of my desire for her douse me.
WE ARE TWO hours from home, and I could not be happier. My ass went numb hours ago and I’m starving. The candy I’ve OD’d on from the last gas station we stopped at must have hyped me up. I’m on a complete sugar rush; I haven’t been able to keep still this whole journey. My legs have bopped around so much, I’m sure they’ll ache like I’ve run a marathon tomorrow.
“Are there any Red Vines left?” Ethan asks rummaging around in the bag between us while keeping his focus on the road. It was overflowing with candy and chips a little way back; now, not so much.
“Um…nope, I ate them all. Sorry.”
“What, like all of them? There were three packs!”
“Yep, see?” I stick my tongue out like the seven year-old I seem to have reverted to and show him the evidence of my binge. My whole mouth is stained an unnatural cherry red color. “I was hungry.”
He regards me with a look of wonderment for a moment.
“Wow, you’re kind of a pig.”
“Oh my gosh! You can't say that to a girl, you’ll give me a complex,” I huff in a disgruntled tone; I can’t believe he just called me a pig!
“Chill, Winston.”
“Huh?” I scrunch my nose not understanding his saying.
“Chill, Winston…it’s a quote.”
I look at him blankly, and he laughs.
“From that Guy Richie movie. You know…the one where the guy turns up to some drug dealer’s loft with a girl that’s completely off her ass on weed. He’s carrying fertilizer, and one of them shouts at him for not looking like ‘your average horti-fucking-culturist’,” he says making air quotes. “The dude replies, ‘Chill, Winston’ in a spaced out voice.”
“Yeah, er, no. No clue what film you’re referring to,” I answer with a skeptical look. “I think you’re just making that up.”
“What? No way! It’s called Snatch. No wait, it’s the other one, er, Lock Stock or something.”
“Ooh, Snatch is the one with Brad Pitt as a boxer, isn’t it?” I must have made a dreamy face because he’s looking at me horrified.
“Are you crushing on Brad Pitt?”
“Yeah,” I answer wide-eyed. “It’s Brad Pitt. Who wouldn’t?”