Our hands brush more often now, and neither of us pulls away. It feels natural, like we have known each other longer than 2 days. Back on the road, the van hums steadily for a while. Then I hear it, a low rattle, soft at first, easy to ignore if I wanted to. My stomach tightens. You hear that, right? Diane asks. Yeah, I hear it.
The sound grows louder as we drive. I take the next exit and pull into a small gas station with a mechanic shop attached. The van sputters as I park. I talk to the mechanic. He listens, frowns, then gives me the news I was hoping not to hear. The alternator is done. He can fix it, but not until tomorrow.
Tomorrow feels like a heavy word. When I tell Diane, I expect disappointment. maybe frustration. Instead, she just nods. Okay, she says. Then we wait. I blink. You are not upset. She steps closer and touches my arm lightly. Marcus, this is part of it. Things break. Plans change. I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding. We walk into town together.
It is small and quiet with one main street and a bed and breakfast at the end. yellow paint, a porch swing that caks in the wind. Inside, the woman at the desk tells us there is one room left, one bed. I glance at Diane, ready to suggest something else, but she answers before I can. We will take it. The room is simple, clean, a double bed with a white quilt, lace curtains at the window.
It feels strangely intimate, just standing there together. I can sleep on the floor, I say quickly. She looks at me like I just said something silly. We are adults. We can share a bed if that is okay with you. It is more than okay. She showers first. I sit on the bed staring at the carpet, trying not to overthink everything.
When she comes out wearing sweatpants and an oversized sweater, her hair damp and loose, I almost forget how to breathe. My turn in the shower does nothing to calm me down. We go to a diner across the street for dinner. Warm lights, old booths, coffee that never seems to run out. She reaches across the table at one point and covers my hand with hers.
This is perfect, she says quietly. I want to believe her. Back in the room, the silence feels different now. Heavy but not uncomfortable. She asks what I was afraid of when I invited her. I tell her the truth that I was scared she would realize I was not enough. She moves closer close enough that I can feel her warmth. I am not going anywhere, she says.
The kiss happens slowly carefully like we are both afraid of moving too fast but also afraid of stopping. Her lips are soft. She tastes like coffee. When we pull apart, my heart is racing. We sleep side by side, hands finding each other in the dark. In the morning, I wake before her and bring back coffee and muffins.
She smiles like I did something big, even though it feels small and right. We spend the morning walking around town. Bookstores, cafes, cold air, and warm cups between our hands. She tells me she does not want to go home yet. We do not have to, I say. Her smile says everything. When we get the van back that afternoon, it feels like freedom again.
We drive south along the coast. The ocean stretches out beside us, endless and calm. At sunset, we sit in the back of the van, eating bread and cheese, watching the sky change colors. I tell her, “I do not want to do this without her anymore.” She takes my hand and does not let go. That night, we fall asleep with the sound of waves outside and the van rocking gently in the wind.
