“You’d be willing to go back home?”
I haven’t given it a thought, jumping at the chance to ‘cement our friendship.’ The thought of going home so early comes with mixed feelings. My father will wave his ‘I told you, you wouldn’t make it,’ finger. Yet, suddenly, surrounded by good and loyal friends, I have this burst of confidence.
This is my life.
Everyone around me lives life on their terms, so why am I any different?
I can do this.
Stand up to my family once and for all.
“Yes,” I announce proudly.
Oliver would have a face of an angel if his lips broke further apart and weren’t illuminated with a mischievous grin. Lifting another shot glass to his lips, he downs it in one go, sliding his tongue along the rim, tasting the salt while his gaze remains fixated on me. He has no idea what he’s doing to me—breaking down every wall inside me with the sheer movement of his tongue.
“Fine, but I’m driving,” he demands, sliding another shot toward me. “Ain’t no girl behind my wheel.”
Asshole.
“Whatever! I don’t want to drive your penis mobile, anyway.”
It goads a reaction from him, a smirk as he gestures for me to drink my shot.
“Get ready, Gabs. You’re either going to love me, or hate me, once we’ve reached Colorado.”
The scary part is, I know this will go only one way.
I can’t hate him.
Nothing could make me hate him.
It will only be a matter of time when it sways the other way.
And the worst part is, we’re halfway there already.
Oliver
I toot the horn again, yelling for Gabriella to hurry the hell up.
Why women, in general, take forever to do things is beyond me. I have one bag packed—the bare essentials. At the rate she’s going, everything but the kitchen sink will need to be loaded into the back of this Jeep.
She yells back, informing me she’ll be ready in a minute. That minute, already an extension from the fifteen minutes, she asked for an hour ago.
Women are pains in the asses.
A brown van marked with the name UPS pulls into the curb. Jumping out of his seat, the driver, in his questionable short shorts, throws me a package then asks me for a signature.
“I guess you’re not Gabriella?” he asks with a snicker.
“She’s inside, packing for our honeymoon,” I boast, happy to entertain a lie. “We just got hitched, so time to start a family. You know how it is, mate.”
His expression falls. The wanker needs to back the fuck off, and judging by my arrogant tone, he realizes and doesn’t say another word, heading back to his van and taking off in a hurry.
I make my way inside the house, finding Gabriella walking around in circles, talking to herself while making mental lists. All I can hear is the word check repeated several times. She stops at the kitchen, instantly noticing the brown package in my hand.
“Let’s get on the road.”
She quickly shifts subjects, ignoring the parcel, rummaging through her purse one more time.
“Don’t you want to see what’s in the package?”
“It can wait until I’m back.”
“Why won’t you open it?” I ask, curious as to what Prince Charming has sent her now. “What do you have to hide?”
“Fine,” she argues back, tearing the tape open.
Inside sits another box. She tears that one open as well and inside sits another box. Jesus Christ. She pulls off the ribbon to reveal a small blue box with the name Tiffany & Co. printed on it.
Opening the card, she reads it, slow and steady. I’m watching her closely, every expression trying to read her thoughts because the woman is killing me little by little, and my unwarranted jealousy is rearing its ugly head again. The burn is agonizingly slow. It’s crawling through the walls and into my chest, knife in hand ready to stab my heart into a million pieces until retaliation is imminent.
“Well, the suspense is killing me.” I clap my hands with an overly fake smile. “Open the box.”
“No, it’s okay.” She lingers, releasing a sigh. “Okay, fine.”
At a slow and painful pace, she opens the box, and inside sits a diamond ring, an engagement ring, to be exact. I can’t tell you what fucking type, but the sentiment strikes a nerve with my bruised ego.
“I’m assuming you’ve seen this ring before.”
She nods.
“Go on, put it on,” I coerce.
“I’m not going to put it on,” she bellows, frustrated. “I just need…”
“Time,” we say at the same time.
Silence echoes in the small kitchen. Our road trip’s already off to a bad start.
“Does he know you’re on this road trip with me?”
Gabriella doesn’t respond, her usually witty response, scarce.
“Does he know you’re coming back?”
More silence.
“So tell me, what does he know?” I ask, frustrated we are even having this conversation.
“Nothing,” she mutters, momentarily beyond words. “He knows nothing because I haven’t spoken to him in over a week. There… you happy?”
“Am I happy?” I repeat, tone laced in sarcasm. “The audacity of you to ask such a thing. I’d be happy if you told him to fuck right off, tell him we kissed, and at least admit we’re friends.”
“What do you want from me?” she yells, shoving fruit into her bag like she’s going to starve to death in the car. “I’ve limited my communication with him. I’m creating as much distance as I can. Now get off my back, or we’ll never get out of here.”
She ignores my persistent glare, grabbing her bag, demanding we go, now.
For the first hour of the road trip, Gabriela doesn’t say a word making me regret this trip. A simple plane ride would have been much more comfortable than the tension inside this car which you can cut with a chainsaw.
My frustration escalates, so I crank up the stereo and start singing along to Bon Jovi. A classic tune and tension release melody at the same time.
“You’re singing the lyrics all wrong,” she berates, crossing her arms in defiance. “It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not.”
“That’s what I was singing,” I argue back.
“No… you were saying naked or not.”
“You know, for someone who claims they need space, you sure have a lot of naked on your brain.”
“No, you have naked on your brain,” she huffs. “I never have naked on my brain aside from now because you’re singing the wrong lyrics!”
“What’s crawled up your arse and died, Gabs. That time of the month?”
Her eyes are a knife pointing directly into my chest, the sharp point digging deeper. “You’re treading on thin ice.”