The van rattles over a rough patch of road and I grip the steering wheel tighter, forcing myself to focus. I’m being ridiculous. So what if some random guy understood my art? So what if he had the same dark eyes and the same ability to see through bullshit? That didn't mean anything. It didn't change anything. I'd probably never see him again.
The thought hits me harder than it should, a sharp twist in my chest that feels uncomfortably close to disappointment. I shake my head, trying to dislodge it. This is insane. I don’t know him and I don't want to know him. I’m fine on my own. I've always been fine on my own.
But even as the thought plays in my head, I know it’s a lie.
I pull over at a rest stop about twenty miles outside of Moab, killing the engine and sitting in the sudden silence. The cassette had stopped playing at some point and I hadn't noticed, too lostin my own head. I climb into the back of the van, my bare feet cold against the worn wooden floor.
The space is small, but it’s all mine. Fairy lights crisscross the ceiling, casting everything in a soft, dreamy glow. My mattress takes up most of the floor, covered in a patchwork of blankets and pillows I've collected over the years. Milk crates line one wall, stuffed with records and cassettes and art supplies. My cameras sit on a makeshift shelf, next to stacks of developed photographs held together with rubber bands. On the other side I have a secured box that contains my single camping gas stove, a small cool box, and some dry food items that won’t spoil. I also have a crate full of my lollipops that I mass order online when I’m in a town for more than two days. It’s my little haven of peace.
I grab my sketchbook and sit cross-legged on the mattress, flipping through the pages. The fox stares back at me, rendered in careful detail. I'd captured everything needed to honor its life.
My fingers trace the lines I've drawn, remembering the way Dom had studied it. The way he'd understood it without me having to explain. He didn’t look at me like a freak or some disturbed girl that needs help, who is broken because she’s not like other girls.
He'd looked at it and seen me.
I slam the sketchbook shut, my heart pounding. Fucking Dom. This is exactly what I don’t need, to have someone who understands me and who makes me feel less alone. Because being alone is safe. Being alone means I can't be disappointed when people inevitably reveal themselves to be just as fake and shallow as everyone else.
But what if he isn't?
The question whispers through my mind, insidious and tempting. What if he really is like me? What if I’m not the only one who feels like an alien in a world of people playing dress up?
I grab my digital camera and start scrolling through the photos I've taken today. The roadkill from different angles, the landscape, the way the light hits the backdrop of the desert. And then, almost without meaning to, I find myself studying the background of one shot, looking for any sign of him. His car, his shadow, anything to prove he was there.
Nothing.
He'd appeared and disappeared like a ghost, leaving nothing behind except the memory of his voice and the way he'd looked at me like he could see straight through to my bones.
I set the camera down and lay back on the mattress, removing my hoodie, staring up at the fairy lights. Siouxsie and the Banshees drifts through my mind,Kiss Them for Me, all sultry and uplifting. I should put on some music and distract myself with something, anything other than this obsessive loop my brain has gotten stuck in.
But I don’t move.
I just lay here, replaying every second of our interaction. The way he'd smiled when I asked who he was. The tattoos on his forearms, dark ink against tan skin. The way he'd said my name,Roxy, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. That mouth was delicious, plum and pouty.
The way he'd said "see you around" like it was a promise instead of a goodbye.
Holy shit, why is he doing this to me? Turning me into a babbling mess. My hands are shaking and I press them flat against my stomach, trying to steady them to calm myself. This feeling, this pull and finally being noticed is dangerous. It makes me vulnerable in a way I've spent my whole life avoiding.
But god, I want it.
I want to see him again. I need to know if that moment was real or if I'd imagined the connection of our mutual understanding. Was it real with the way the air between us hadfelt charged with something I couldn't name? I want to know what he thinks about when he looks at death, what was it that broke him to reach the same level of brokenness as me.
I need to know if he’s thinking about me, too.
The thought makes me laugh, sharp and bitter in the quiet of the van. Of course he isn't thinking about me. He’s probably miles away by now, already having forgotten about the weird girl crouched on the roadside. I was just another strange encounter on a long road, nothing more. He’s probably fucking some stranger right now.
But I can't shake the feeling that I’m wrong.
A seismic shift had happened back there, like a door opening that I hadn't even known existed. And now that it is open, I can't close it. There is no way to go back to the way things were before, when I was content in my solitude and my art and my carefully constructed isolation.
He'd seen me. Really seen me, and I want more of his attention. I want his eyes on me.
I sit up, becoming suddenly restless with all of these voices in my head. I need to move, I need to drive, to do something other than lie here obsessing over a stranger. I climb back into the driver's seat and start the engine, pulling back onto the highway without any real destination in mind.
The road unwinds before me like a never ending corridor. I drive north toward the mountains, toward whatever comes next. My van's headlights cut through the darkness and I let myself get lost in the rhythm of driving, the white lines flashing past, the purr of the engine, the way the open expanse of land covers me from all sides like a hug.
But even as I drive, as I try to focus on the road along with the music and anything else, I can’t fucking stop thinking about him and hoping that "see you around" meant exactly what it sounded like.
What are the chances of meeting someone who clicks with you in ways nobody else can? That they won’t run when they see the murky dark depths bleed through you, that they want to stick around?
