Dom pulls up to the pump and gets out to pay inside and I stay in the car, my hands clasping together in my lap, twisting and fidgeting. I watch him through the window as he walks into the convenience store. He moves like James Brennan now with his new buzzed hair cut and different clothes. He still doesn’t wear color, but he has changed from a black t-shirt to a whiteone. Progress, I guess. I, however, have ditched wearing the loud colors for now, blending in with more neutral clothing. Only until we are settled somewhere new.
He comes back with coffee and a bag of chips, as he takes a seat I grab my coffee from his hand, greedy for the caffeine shot.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You look nervous."
"I am nervous that someone will recognize us. I want this to work.”
"It will."
"We're actually doing this."
He reaches over and squeezes my thigh. "We're doing this."
He pulls back onto the highway and we continue driving. The landscape is still desert, flat, endless and empty. Nothing that makes it interesting. I will be glad of a different view.
About an hour later, as my mind is drifting elsewhere, the sound of a siren makes me jump to an upright position in the passenger seat.
“Fuck,” Dom hisses. I look in the side mirror and see a cop car signalling for us to pull over.
“Keep calm, baby. Remember, we are not Dom and Roxy from yesterday.”
“Why the hell have they pulled us over? Were you speeding?” I hiss under my breath.
“Of course not!”
A woman, maybe forty, with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, approaches Dom’s side of the car as he pulls down the window and places his hands on the wheel. She looks bored but professional. Like she's done this a thousand times and is over it.
"Good afternoon," she says, leaning down to the window.
“Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?”
“Err no. I’m positive I wasn’t speeding,” Dom says, as calm as a cucumber.
“Your tail light is smashed.”
The relief almost makes me melt into the seat, but I control myself from showing any emotion, and continue to look out of the windshield, acting indifferent.
“Is it? I didn’t notice. I only bought it recently.”
“Can I see your ID, sir? Registration too.”
Dom leans over to the glove compartment, and pulls out the documents she requested. I glance up at the cop, and she is watching me in a scrutinizing way. Is it my clothes? Is she suspicious? I’m wearing a plain yellow summer dress, so I’m hardly anything to be wary of.
"Where are you headed?" she asks as she checks over Dom’s documents. Why is she asking that?
"San Diego," Dom says, his voice lighter than it usually is, friendly and calm.
My heart is hammering so hard I'm sure she can hear it, and I’m consciously stopping myself from fidgeting.
"You're from Oregon?" she asks.
"Portland," Dom says. "We've been there for five years."
"What do you do?"
