Page 16 of UNAwere

The bracelet is taking form, and I’m liking the way it’s turning out. I’ve used brown wool, mainly because when I look at Briggs, I don’t think of the hot pink or the baby blue wool I’ve also packed.

I pull the bracelet off the hook and reach for Briggs.

‘Give me your hand,’ I say.

‘I—What?’

I extend my hand towards him, waiting.

‘Why?’ he asks suspiciously.

‘I made you something.’

His eyes shoot from the road to the bracelet, then back to the road.

‘Why?’ he asks again.

‘Because you’re driving me. And I want to say thank you. And your wrists looked too bare.’

‘Too bare?’

‘I dunno, just accept my gift.’

He grunts, slowly extending his hand towards me. I grab his wrist and jolt when something thrums within me at the feeling of his skin. I blink, glancing at the side of his face, but he doesn’t seem to have felt it, so I quickly tie the bracelet to his wrist and let go.

Briggs says nothing, begrudgingly accepting my gift.

I’d feel offended if only my stomach wasn’t twisting and my head wasn’t throbbing. I splutter a little, feeling vomit begin to make its unholy ascension.

‘Oh, boy…’

‘What?’ Briggs’s voice grates across my nerves. He throws a glare at me, and he must see something that gives him the signal that I’m about to be sick: green cheeks, spittle at the corners of my mouth, wide, watery eyes, I’m not sure. But I’m grateful when he swears and quickly pulls the car off the side of the highway.

I leap from my seat, burst through the passenger door, and hurl into the bushes by the side of the road.

Waffles.

I’m never going to eat waffles again.

The first four days with Briggs go by fairly quickly.

Every day is the same. We find a motel to sleep. I’m ushered to a bed with a thrust of his jutted chin while he takes the seat or lounge in the room to keep watch. We have coffee. We eat around midday at a diner or takeout place, whatever’s been pre-approved. And then we drive in silence until dinner, which is usually a gas station sandwich. Only to do it all over again.

I get into Briggs’s rhythm fairly easily. I allow him to do his job, and I try not to make trouble. As much as I talk, and as much as he seems to hate it, he never once tells me to shut up. He does, however, owe me sixteen dollars for the number of times he’s sworn so far. Which I don’t think I’ll ever see, but keeping count is still a nice distraction.

I don’t learn a lot about him. Other than his colourful vocabulary and that he likes wearing button-down shirts and rolling them up to the elbows. He wears jeans and the same pair of boots – a lace-up style that are so big they could most likely fit my entire leg.

He keeps his sunglasses handy and uses them even when it’s not sunny. And there’s always a scowl on his mouth, even if he appears to be in a relatively good mood. I’ve never seen him smile, and I don’t think I’ll hold my breath.

Despite his grumpiness, he’s fine, and there are definitely worse companions I could be stuck with on this road trip.

The window, however, is getting to me.

‘Does it really have to be down?’ I ask on the fourth day. It’s early afternoon, and we’ve been driving in the allocated silence breaks I’ve been allowing him. But the roar of the wind coming in is starting to upset me.

‘I need air,’ he says.

‘Why? We have vents in the car. I don’t think you’ll suffocate.’