And that was how the drive was to wherever for the next several hours.
I sang so much with him that my throat became sore.
Of course, all of it was classic rock with the occasional early nineties: Alice in Chains and Aerosmith mostly, and none of it bothered me one bit. I actually loved it all and the memory it was creating in my mind. A memory with Andrew.
We find a rest stop off the freeway in Jackson, Tennessee, and take full advantage of it. We slip inside the restrooms to change out of our wet clothes, which we’ve been in for longer than either of us realized. I guess our fun together in the car with my less-than-stellar singing and him pretending he loves it distracted us from everything else.
He’s dressed before me and already waiting inside the car when I stroll out wearing the only thing I had left in my bag that was clean: the white cotton shorts and varsity tee I like to sleep in. I only brought one bra and I happened to be wearing it when I was being rained on so it’s completely wet still. But I’m wearing it anyway because there’s no way I’m getting in that car with him bra-less.
“I am not wearing these shorts for your benefit,” I say, pointing sternly at him as I crawl back inside the car. “For the record.”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a grin.
“Note taken,” he says, jotting it down on a pretend tablet.
I lift my butt from the seat and grasp the end of my shorts, pulling them just a little so they aren’t crawling up my crotch and to cover a little more skin on my thighs. I start to kick my black flip-flops onto the floorboard until I see how saturated the floor mat is and decide to leave them on. It’s a good thing the seats are leather.
“I’m gonna have to find some more clothes,” I say.
Andrew’s wearing jeans again and his black Doc Marten boots, and another plain gray t-shirt, lighter in color than the last one. Like anything, it looks good on him, but I kind of miss his tanned muscled calves and the black and gray Celtic tattoo on the ball of his ankle.
“Why is that all you brought?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the road. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
I smirk over at him. “I guess since I didn’t know where I was going I didn’t want to lug a bunch of crap around.”
“Makes sense.”
The sun is shining in Tennessee and we’re heading south now. The other side of the freeway is grid-locked because of road construction and we both express how glad we are that we’re not on ‘that side of the road’. Eventually, the daylight fades behind the landscape and dusk bathes the rice and cotton fields in a purplish haze; there’s always some kind of massive field on either side of the freeway, stretching far off in the distance.
We make it to Birmingham, Alabama a little after 7:00p.m.
“Where do you wanna stop for clothes?” he asks, creeping along a city street lined by stop lights and gas stations.
I rise up from the seat and look around, trying to glimpse the lighted signs for someplace suitable.
Andrew points out ahead. “There’s a Walmart.”
“I guess it’s as good any,” I say and he makes a left at the stoplight and we pull into the parking lot.
We get out and the first thing I do is pull my panties out of the crack of my butt.
“Need some help?”
“No!” I laugh.
We walk together through the sea of cars in the parking lot, my flip-flops snapping against my heels. Instantly, I recoil into myself, knowing I look like hell with a dirty, matted braid over my shoulder and dressed in these skimpy shorts that keep crawling up my ass. No makeup anymore, since my becoming-one-with-the-rain washed it all off. I keep my eyes on the bright white floor as we walk through the store and avoid eye contact with anyone.
We head to the women’s clothes first and I grab a few simple things: two more pairs of cotton shorts that are still short but not up-my-crotch short like the ones I’m wearing, and a couple of cute v-neck graphic tees with random stuff on them. I hold out on my desire to visit the panties and bras section. I think for now I’ll make do with what I have.
Then I follow Andrew over to the area by the pharmacy where all of the vitamins and cold medicines and toothpaste and stuff are.
We go straight into the aisle with the razors and shaving cream.
“I haven’t shaved in a week,” he says, rubbing the stubble that has been growing on his face for the past few days.
I think it’s sexy, but with or without it, it’s still sexy so I don’t complain.
Why would I anyway?
I grab a pack of razors, too, as well as some Olay shaving cream in a gold can. Then in the next aisle, I pick up a small bottle of mouthwash because one can never have enough mouthwash. I adjust my purse on the opposite shoulder as the items start to fill up in the other arm. We go into the next aisle and I pluck a set of shampoo and conditioner from the shelf, trying to balance them in my hands with the other stuff, but Andrew takes it from me and carries it instead. He takes the mouthwash, too.
We head over to the medicines and there’s a middle-aged couple standing in front of the cough syrup, reading the labels.
Andrew says casually, without lowering his voice, “Babe, did you find that yeast infection stuff?”
My eyes spring open and I freeze in front of the Tylenol.
He removes a small box of Advil from the shelf.
The couple pretends not to have heard what he said, but I know they heard him.
“I mean are you even sure that’s what’s causing the itch?” he goes on and I’m literally melting from the heat in my face.
The couple does glance over this time, covertly.
Andrew is grinning his ass off at me from the side, pretending to be reading labels.
I want to smack him, but instead, I play him at his own game.
“Yeah, baby I found it,” I say as casually as he had. “What about you? Did you see if they have extra-small sized condoms?”
The woman turns her head and looks right at him, up and down, and then she eyes me before going back to reading labels.
Andrew doesn’t break; somehow I knew he wouldn’t. He just smiles over at me, enjoying every second of this.
“One size fits all, baby,” he says. “I told you they fill out better when you can actually make it hard.”
A spitting noise bursts from between my lips followed by laughter.
I don’t want to talk about it; at least, I don’t think I do. A part of me feels like I can tell him anything and I sort of want to, but the other part is telling me to be careful. I haven’t forgotten that his issues outweigh mine and I would feel stupid and whiney and selfish telling him anything at all.
I look at the TV instead of him and pretend to be halfway interested in it.
He stands up.
“It must’ve been pretty bad,” he says walking over to me, “and I want you to tell me.”
Pretty bad? Oh great, he just made it worse; even if I did tell him, at least before I wouldn’t have had it in my head that he expected something really horrible. Now that I know he does, I feel like I should make something up.