Young and Reckless

She has sunset orange flowers in her hair, around her wrists, hanging loosely around her waist and hanging onto tightly to her ankles. Her dress, which is really a sheet with a makeshift embroidered hem, wraps around her chest, hiding half of her collarbone. It reaches the middle of her thighs and grips the skin, outlining every womanly curve. The golden-haired goddess arches her back and rolls her eyes backwards so that she can see me in the backseat. In her charming, melodic voice she asks, “Emily, are you okay? How’s your hand?”

My hand is wrapped in a mass of white bandages, held together by several safety pins. The protective layer is, give or take, three or four inches thick. Despite this, my hand still throbs painfully every time in comes into contact with another object, no matter how gently. Not only is my right hand wrapped in a cotton cocoon but, due to Peter’s insistence that Sian be given a turn to ride in the front seat, I am stretched out across the backseat of my Plymouth Valiant, feeling utterly alone even though there are two other people just a foot and a half away.

“My hand’s okay, thanks,” I mumble. I run my eyes over the makeshift sheet-dress, dyed various shades of yellow and orange to make it resemble a sunset. The yellow and orange embroidered silk hem and the belt of dried sunflowers hanging from the waist. It’s a beautiful dress but only on a beautiful person. That thought does nothing to ease my jealousy. Sian turns around and leans around the side of her seat: “I’m really sorry, Em. Really, really, really sorry.” I smile and shrug, any words would only confirm that she’s won me over, though she won me over a long time ago. It’s surprisingly very difficult to hate someone who continuously apologises for their wrong doings (especially if their wrong doings aren’t really wrong doings and are actually accidents).

We’re cruising through Missouri, down a stretch of countryside road. It seems that we’re always in the countryside or perhaps the route Pete decided on deliberately misses out big cities and large towns. The only things that I’ve seen that would indicate the existence of other people are rundown houses with darkened windows and untidy front yards.

When we pull off into dip (or perhaps a pathetic attempt at a ditch) at the side of the road to allow Sian to pick some roses and take a piss, I make peace with Pete. His eyes are blank, his brow is furrowed and his arms are crossed over his chest. He looks like a defiant five-year-old.

“Pete.”

No response.

“Pete, I’m sorry.”

Still, not a word. My temper, short as ever, spontaneously became an electrical impulse and shot to the tip of my tongue, giving me no say in what words came out of my mouth.

“If I’d known telling you the truth would make you so pissy I would’ve lied!” I snap. There’s no cue for instant regret, no attempts at patching it up, just my short, heavy breaths and my eyes flicking back and forth, trying to find a flicker of emotion, anything, in his face. Again, he doesn’t reply but I didn’t expect him to. “Whatever.” I throw myself back into the backseat and glare out of the window.

Moments pass. Moments that feel like eternities pass. Seconds miraculously transform into minutes, minutes become hours, hours become days and days become months... years, decades, centuries, millennia... Peter and I sit in silence for a total of seventy-eight (but who’s counting?) seconds before he breaks it.

He clears his throat and turns his head around so that he can see me in the backseat, glaring and trying to be as defiant-looking as he. “I’m not angry... just, why don’t you like her? Is there something wrong with that I don’t know about? Does she have a really terrible flaw that I can’t see? I really, really like her and I really think...”

“Think what?”

“Nothing.”

It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t finish the sentence because I know what he was going to say. It breaks my heart to know that he’s not talking about me. I exhale slowly and unfold my arms, placing my hands in my lap and looking down, around, left, right, up, down again. Anywhere but his face.

Why don’t I like her?

I could tell the truth or I could lie. Telling the truth has proved a tendency to land me in undesirable situations and lying simply goes against my every moral (assuming that I have any). I think about how I hate films where the female protagonist messes up her one chance at true love. For example, My Best Friend’s Wedding. I cry every single time I watch that damn film because Julia Roberts was too bloody frigid to allow the love of her life to love her. Well, that and the fact that she loses him to Cameron Diaz.

“What are you thinking about?” A small smile has crept onto his lips and I can’t help but smile too. “You’ve got your thinking face on.”

I chuckle. “Cameron Diaz.”

“My Best Friend’s Wedding?”

“Yeah.”

Cue an awkward silence. I think about how there are never any cues for anything good. I hope that one day there will be.

“Maybe Sian’s not as perfect as I think she is.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe someone else is.”

“Maybe.”

“Em?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry I was acting all... weird. It was just me being...”

“You?”

That smile again. “Yeah... but you mean a lot to me. I don’t really see how you can put up with me.”

I shrug, thinking about how Julia Roberts and I are alike. Both of us are unlucky in love but at least I don’t have a bush living on top of my head.