“You just randomly swung by to see me this morning?”
“I wouldn’t say randomly. But I didn’t pack a delicious sandwich in the great hope that you might need to get in my truck and eat half of it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I promise, you, Roar, if I thought we’d have ended up road tripping together today, I’d have vacuumed out the cab andpacked a second sandwich for you so you didn’t have to eat half of mine.”
“I don’t have to eat it.” I shove it across to him.
He doesn’t take it.
“That’s what you heard?” He sighs and shakes his head. “I just would have made you something without spinach because I know it’s not your favourite.”
Oh.
“Thank you,” I whisper. The lump gets bigger so that’s all I get out.
“I’m still the jerk who broke up with you,” he says gruffly. “Don’t go being soft on me.”
I take a bite of his wrap and shake my head.
“I won’t,” I mumble around the deliciousness.
We’ve just finished the wrap when we see a sign for a coffee shop a few minutes ahead.
“Might as well stop and stretch our legs, yeah?” Garrett asks.
It’s where we usually stop, after all.
I nod and start gathering up the wrappers to toss when we get out.
Inside, there’s a crowd of travellers all thinking the same thing as us. The line up for the men’s room goes faster than the ladies’, though, and by the time I get out, Garrett’s already ordered and he’s holding two coffee cups at the door.
“Mocha or double-double?” He holds up one cup, then the other, giving me a choice of my two favourite coffee orders.
“Thank you,” I mutter, reaching for the mocha. He’s already holding it out, knowing that’s the one I’ll pick, and my fingers don’t just meet the cup but wrap around his hand, too.
My breath catches at the visceral flashback, the odd déjà vu of it all, and from the low grunt he makes, I think he’s also remembering other times we’ve stopped here on drives home.
The memories surge as we climb back into the truck.
Last winter, neither of us had heard “Last Christmas” by Wham yet, so we spent the entire drive listening to the radio in a hilarious game of Whamaggedon Chicken. We’d leave it on a station for a few songs and then switch to a new one, always holding our breath as we scrolled lest we accidentally stumbled across it.
We didn’t hear it once that drive, and we were grinning from ear to ear when we arrived at my parents’ house—only to hear them listening to it as we walked in the door.
“So close,” Garrett whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “We definitely get a consolation prize, right?”
The consolation prize was very quiet mutual masturbation orgasms, because my childhood bed squeaks, and my parents are—were—fine with us sleeping in the same room, but I don’t need them to know we have—had—sex under their roof.
After putting his coffee cup in the cupholder, displacing the clementine I dropped there, Garrett cranks the heat and we get back on the road.
The first winter he had this truck, we pulled off to the side of the road and had a frantic quickie because I’d been so busy with exams the week before we left it had been a while, and I knew I wouldn’t want to have sex once we got home.
I take a big sip of my mocha trying to chasethatmemory away.
It’s hot on my tongue, a little uncomfortable, but thedistraction works—for a moment. More memories cascade into the void, though. Like the year we realized halfway home that we’d forgotten all of the presents, and we stopped at a Giant Tiger and did our best.
Buying last minute discount presents for everyone was the highlight of the entire holidays that year. The way we laughed, the way we hyped up every mediocre choice, convincing each other it would be loved by the recipient.
Damn damn damn.
I pretend to scroll through my phone to avoid watching him. His hand is on the gearshift, and I have a sudden, stupid flash of how he used to rest that same hand on my thigh during long drives. Just because he could. Just because he liked to touch me.
