For You (The 'Burg #1)(164)

“What?”

“You’re sweaty. You need a towel for your seat.”

“Feb, I own a truck,” was his absurd reply.

“So?”

“You can sweat in a truck.”

“Is that a rule?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You can sweat in a truck, certain vans and any car that was built before 1990. That’s the rule. You know what you can’t sweat in?”

I knew where this was heading so I stayed silent and looked out the side window.

He didn’t let it go which wasn’t a surprise. Colt had never been one to let anything go. Back in the day we’d argue, mostly because Colt never let anything go but also because I never let anything out. It wasn’t a good combination but we never argued mean. It was always about exasperation at each other’s understood quirks but it was also always tethered to love. Half the time we’d end an argument laughing our asses off.

The only time he ever let anything go was when he let me go. Then again, that time it was a doozy what I wouldn’t let out.

Therefore not letting it go, Colt said, “A four door sedan.”

“You can’t sweat in a Volkswagen Beetle,” I told him.

“You’re not gettin’ a Beetle.”

“Why not?” I asked, looking back to him and sounding snippy because I liked Beetles.

“Because they’re ridiculous.”

“They are not.”

“No Beetle, Feb.”

“A convertible one?”

“Definitely not.”

I felt my vision narrow mainly because my eyes narrowed.

“Why ‘definitely not’?”

“‘Cause, you got a roof, at least that’s some barrier to the music blastin’ outta your car four seasons in the year. You got a convertible, you’ll get slapped with a moving noise violation.”

I stared at him with what I suspected was horror. “Is there such a thing as a ‘moving noise violation’?”

Colt didn’t answer which I didn’t know whether to take as good or bad.

I decided to ask Sully, or more aptly, to ask Lorraine who would ask Sully which would be more likely to get me a truthful answer.

Then I suggested, “How ‘bout one of those new Minis?”

“How ‘bout a Buick?”

I wasn’t sure but it was almost like I tasted vomit in the back of my throat.

“A Buick?” I whispered.

“They’re safe and they’re American.”

“Minis are English. The English are our allies.”

“The new Mini is made by BMW which is German.”

There it was, proof that he knew more about cars than me.

“Germans are our allies now too,” I told him.

“How ‘bout we talk about this later?” Colt suggested and I stayed quiet because I thought it was a good suggestion.

When we got home Colt went straight to the shower, I went straight to the boxes. I had time to get one unpacked, sheets and towels. My towels would go in his guest bathroom which made our purchases yesterday towel overkill, something I decided I wouldn’t tell Dad. My sheets would fit the bed in the second bedroom. They were feminine but far less flowery than the ones Mom bought. I therefore decided, when Mom and Dad left, to switch out the sheets and comforter in the second bedroom with mine and then put Mom’s back on when she and Dad were in town. I also decided to share this gesture with Colt, thinking it might bring me closer to a convertible Beetle which was the kind of idea I’d never had. I’d never owned a new car or a nice one nor ever really considered such a purchase. Now that the idea was planted in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I was standing at the dining room table, staring at the half empty box with my journals in it, thoughts of Beetles swept away and thoughts of Denny clogging my brain, when Colt walked out.

I looked at him and saw his hair wet and curling around his neck. He had on what he’d worn earlier that morning, a long-sleeved, heathered blue henley thermal, jeans, a great belt and boots. His eyes were on my journal box.

“I haven’t written in my journal since –”

Colt’s arm came up, his hand sliding under my hair and around the back of my neck, this action cutting off my words before he said, “I know.”

I looked down at the box and muttered, “I don’t think I ever will again.”

His fingers gave me a squeeze and I looked at him.

“Isn’t this whole exercise ‘bout us livin’ our lives the way we want to live ‘em?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“So, you wanna write, write.”

I looked down at the box again, seeing mostly my older journals there, ones I’d written in when I was a kid, a pre-teen. Also, some from the last fifteen years.

Once I finished one, I never cracked it open again. I gave it the garbage in my brain hoping to release it. I’d been doing it forever but it was at that moment I realized that this never worked.

I stared in the box and whispered, “No. I don’t need to give my thoughts to a page when I can give them to you.”

His fingers tensed at my neck again, it wasn’t a squeeze this time, or not one he meant to give. This movement was reflexive and intense. Then he used his hand to curl me to his body.