Meant to Be
3
I got about five hours of distance before I heard stirring in the seat next to me. I glanced over and saw that the woman who had been wasted the night before was waking up. She started murmuring and I couldn't make out what she was saying. Soon, her words became clearer and I could hear something close to "Where the fuck am I?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I kept driving, hoping that she would assume this was a dream and go back to sleep. No such luck, though. She sat up straight, scratched her head and looked around. Then she looked at me.
"Who the hell are you?" I might've said something like 'I'm the fairy princess of Bourbon land, and we're going to the all mighty magical Wizard, for he can grant you a shirt', but I figured I should be honest for once.
"Tyler," I said, glancing at her and then gluing my eyes back to the road.
"You…are you stealin' my car?" she asked, her thick eyebrows furrowed.
"No, and I'm sure that if I were, you wouldn't be in it," I said, quickly glancing at my map, which I had neatly spread out on the dashboard.
"Did we screw?"
"No, we didn't screw," I said. "I'm underage. Though we did meet while you were in a drunken stupor."
She stared at me, confused. At least I think the look on her face read confused. I tried to put myself in her shoes. No recollection of the night before, I awake in my car, only I'm in the passenger seat while a random female who claims to be underage drives, and I have no top on. Just a lacy bra.
"Where are we going?" She would probably wait until her hangover passed and she wasn't seeing in double to actually question the strange situation further.
"New York," I said.
"Why are we going there?" she asked, scratching the tattoo of a robin on her abdomen.
"Because I'm trying to find someone."
"Who?" she said, buckling her seat belt.
"Mirabelle Stewart," I answered, feeling my fingers tingle at the sound of her name.
"Never heard of her," I figured. I didn't respond, instead I kept driving in hopes to get more hours in before she was fully conscious enough to kick me out.
"It's getting pretty dark." That was the first thing she said to me since I explained why we were headed to New York. Hours passed quickly, and it was getting dark. We were in a rural area, and streetlights were rare.
"It is," I replied, tapping the light on the ceiling between us to look at my map.
"We'd better stop at a motel," she said, looking out the window and seeing tiny lights miles ahead of us. "I don't think you should drive at night around these parts. Crazy shit happens were farms are. Like chainsaw killers and shit."
"We don't need to stop," I said. All I could think about was New York.
"We do need to stop," she responded. I could detect to seriousness in her voice. I figured since she'd gone along with me driving her car for hours, away from her home, I at least owed this to her.
"Fine. But we can't sleep for long."
The motel we stopped at was actually nicer than my own home. The beds were made up nicely, the carpet was vacuumed, and the television worked. It would look nice to anyone, so long as they don't take an ultraviolet light to it.
"So…I was shitfaced, then I went to Walter's and punched you in the eye, which is why you got that shiner. Then I saw his real wife and tried to tell her that I was sleeping with Walter and he was gonna leave her, but you stopped me and pretended to be my daughter, and cheated Walter out of more than six hundred bucks."
"That just about sums it up," I said, sitting on the twin bed opposite her. When we got in the room, she finally asked what the hell was going on and who the hell I was.
"And you took advantage of the opportunity by trying to get to New York to meet this writer who has no idea who you are," she added.
"Correct. Except for the last part. She does know me."
"You've never met," she said, staring at me.
"Not physically, but we have in spirit," I said; but how could I expect her to understand?
"Right," she said in a tone that made it obvious she thought I was crazy.
"On average, I would kick your ass out on the street and take my car back, but since Walter has made it clear he's not leaving his wife and I just got evicted, I'll go along. As long as you can play your little con-artist games enough to get us some money, I'll just sit around for the ride. And when you find this Stewart chick, I'll just go back, after you pay for my gas," she said, laying back on the bed and crossing her legs.
She would be interesting to deal with on the way to New York, but I wanted to hug her. Before meeting this alcoholic, I had no idea how I would get to the city on foot, and now I have a car.
"My name's Robin, by the way," she added.
"That explains the tattoo."
I didn't answer. Instead, I kept driving, hoping that she would assume this was a dream and go back to sleep. No such luck, though. She sat up straight, scratched her head and looked around. Then she looked at me.
"Who the hell are you?" I might've said something like 'I'm the fairy princess of Bourbon land, and we're going to the all mighty magical Wizard, for he can grant you a shirt', but I figured I should be honest for once.
"Tyler," I said, glancing at her and then gluing my eyes back to the road.
"You…are you stealin' my car?" she asked, her thick eyebrows furrowed.
"No, and I'm sure that if I were, you wouldn't be in it," I said, quickly glancing at my map, which I had neatly spread out on the dashboard.
"Did we screw?"
"No, we didn't screw," I said. "I'm underage. Though we did meet while you were in a drunken stupor."
She stared at me, confused. At least I think the look on her face read confused. I tried to put myself in her shoes. No recollection of the night before, I awake in my car, only I'm in the passenger seat while a random female who claims to be underage drives, and I have no top on. Just a lacy bra.
"Where are we going?" She would probably wait until her hangover passed and she wasn't seeing in double to actually question the strange situation further.
"New York," I said.
"Why are we going there?" she asked, scratching the tattoo of a robin on her abdomen.
"Because I'm trying to find someone."
"Who?" she said, buckling her seat belt.
"Mirabelle Stewart," I answered, feeling my fingers tingle at the sound of her name.
"Never heard of her," I figured. I didn't respond, instead I kept driving in hopes to get more hours in before she was fully conscious enough to kick me out.
"It's getting pretty dark." That was the first thing she said to me since I explained why we were headed to New York. Hours passed quickly, and it was getting dark. We were in a rural area, and streetlights were rare.
"It is," I replied, tapping the light on the ceiling between us to look at my map.
"We'd better stop at a motel," she said, looking out the window and seeing tiny lights miles ahead of us. "I don't think you should drive at night around these parts. Crazy shit happens were farms are. Like chainsaw killers and shit."
"We don't need to stop," I said. All I could think about was New York.
"We do need to stop," she responded. I could detect to seriousness in her voice. I figured since she'd gone along with me driving her car for hours, away from her home, I at least owed this to her.
"Fine. But we can't sleep for long."
The motel we stopped at was actually nicer than my own home. The beds were made up nicely, the carpet was vacuumed, and the television worked. It would look nice to anyone, so long as they don't take an ultraviolet light to it.
"So…I was shitfaced, then I went to Walter's and punched you in the eye, which is why you got that shiner. Then I saw his real wife and tried to tell her that I was sleeping with Walter and he was gonna leave her, but you stopped me and pretended to be my daughter, and cheated Walter out of more than six hundred bucks."
"That just about sums it up," I said, sitting on the twin bed opposite her. When we got in the room, she finally asked what the hell was going on and who the hell I was.
"And you took advantage of the opportunity by trying to get to New York to meet this writer who has no idea who you are," she added.
"Correct. Except for the last part. She does know me."
"You've never met," she said, staring at me.
"Not physically, but we have in spirit," I said; but how could I expect her to understand?
"Right," she said in a tone that made it obvious she thought I was crazy.
"On average, I would kick your ass out on the street and take my car back, but since Walter has made it clear he's not leaving his wife and I just got evicted, I'll go along. As long as you can play your little con-artist games enough to get us some money, I'll just sit around for the ride. And when you find this Stewart chick, I'll just go back, after you pay for my gas," she said, laying back on the bed and crossing her legs.
She would be interesting to deal with on the way to New York, but I wanted to hug her. Before meeting this alcoholic, I had no idea how I would get to the city on foot, and now I have a car.
"My name's Robin, by the way," she added.
"That explains the tattoo."