Are you? I hesitate. This is the moment I could laugh it off, say it was a joke, let her walk away, but I do not want to. Yeah, I say. I am sure. She hands me her bag. Her fingers brush for less than a second, but my chest tightens like it meant more than that. I load her things into the van.
She climbs into the passenger seat like this is normal, like she belongs there. The engine turns over rough, then settles. I glance at her. She is looking straight ahead, hands folded in her lap. I have coffee, she says. If you want some. She pulls out a red thermos and pours carefully. The coffee is hot and strong. Perfect.
We pull onto the road. For the first hour, we barely talk. The silence is careful, not uncomfortable. like we are both afraid of saying the wrong thing. At a gas station, she buys trail mix and water. On the highway, she offers me some. Our fingers almost touch. Why did you say that about my age? She asks quietly.
I grip the steering wheel. I do not know. I think I was trying to say something without saying it. Like what? That I think about you more than I should. She listens without looking away. I almost did not come, she admits. I stood in my kitchen thinking I was being ridiculous. What changed your mind? I decided I would rather be ridiculous than safe.
Something shifts inside me when she says that. By midday, we are deep into New Hampshire. She leans back, humming softly when I put on music. The road narrows. Trees surround us. I realize I am not scared anymore. By late afternoon, we cross into Maine. We stop at a quiet overlook by a lake. The air is cool. The water is still.
Are you okay with this? She asks, turning to me. More than okay, she smiles. Small and real. We camp that night under the trees. A fire crackles between us. I give her a blanket. Our fingers linger this time. You can sit closer, she says. I do. The stars come out overhead. And for the first time, I think maybe this was never a mistake.
When I wake to the sound of rain the next morning, everything feels different, better. And I know this road trip has already changed, both of us, even if neither of us is ready to say how yet. The rain keeps falling, steady and quiet, like it is trying not to interrupt us. I am sitting in the driver’s seat of the van with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, watching Diane through the fogged windshield.
She is curled slightly toward the window, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her hair loose now and darker at the ends from the damp air. The campsite looks gray and empty outside, but inside the van, it feels small and safe, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of us. I do not know how to act. Every move feels important.
Every word feels like it could change something. Can I tell you something? She says softly. Of course. She stares into her coffee for a moment before speaking. I do not usually do things like this. I plan. I think things through. I make lists. This was not on any list. I smile a little. It was not on mine either.
She lets out a quiet laugh, then grows serious again. I do not know what happens after this trip. I just knew that if I stayed home, I would keep wondering. And I am tired of wondering. I nod. I understand that more than I want to admit. When the rain finally slows, we pack up the campsite together. The tent is wet and heavy.
