Alone Together

I was beyond thankful Sarah had purchased a new vehicle before forcing me to embark on a road trip. She’d driven the same car all through high school and college at the insistence of her parents. Her brief modeling stint had put a bit of spare cash in her bank account but, with Bryan not too far behind in age, her parents convinced her it’d be best if she used it for college instead of to buy a flashy car.

(I was convinced they just didn’t want to explain to Bryan that Sarah drove a nicer car than he did because she was prettier. His part-time job at the Glenbow Museum didn’t pay anything close to what she made doing runway shows and having her picture taken, and telling your second-born that all his problems stemmed from being less attractive than his sister—who all his friends already liked more than him anyway—would only give him a complex. But don’t take my word for it. There’s a reason I decided to pursue hockey instead of a psychology degree.)

Regardless, piling all our crap into the back of Sarah’s Jeep was far less embarrassing than it would’ve been to pile all our crap into her old 1995 Daewoo Espero. That car was a nightmare. The aftermarket paint job was bad enough (the mechanic called it “Electric Yellow” if that gives you any indication), but it was the interior that really sealed the deal. No matter how often she cleaned it, it always smelled like if an STD clinic set up shop next to a fish market. It was grotesque, and the first thing I did once I signed a professional hockey contract was offer to buy her a new car—or, at the very least, have the interior gutted and reupholstered. She refused, of course.

“Do you have everything?” Sarah asked, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her hair was in a knot again and bony shoulders poked out from under her tank top. All I could do was nod, intimidated by her preparedness. “Are you sure? I know how you are, Mike. As soon as we get on I-70 you’ll suddenly remember—”

I cut her off. “Everything’s packed.” I started unzipping my suitcase, ready to let her inspect it to prove a point, but she waved me off.

“Let’s go then. The sooner we get through Big Mike’s Mystery House the better.”

I scoffed as I piled into the passenger seat. Earlier in the afternoon we’d pulled straws to see who’d be driving first. Sarah pulled the short end, meaning she’d be driving the ten or so hours to Kentucky, and I’d drive the next day and then we’d keep switching off.

“Hate on Big Mike’s all you want, it’s only making you look petulant.”

Sarah gawked as she put her seatbelt on. “Did you just call me petulant?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact—”

I was interrupted by the radio, which Sarah had turned on in the midst of my response. Now, let me tell you something about Sarah: not only did she drive a really hideous car throughout high school, she also went through really embarrassing music phases. I would bet a lot of money—because I’m confident, not because I’m a professional athlete and can afford to—that she was the only person who still listened to New Kids on the Block and the Backstreet Boys non-ironically in the twelfth grade. There was also a three-month span during her sophomore year that she was heavily into Chumbawumba and tried to convince everyone they were more than just “Tub Thumping.” No one bought it.

Now that you know, you can probably imagine my horror upon realizing that whoever was driving controlled the radio. That was another one of our things. All the weekends we spent driving to and from hockey tournaments all over Canada prompted us to establish that rule, as well as whoever peed the most between destinations had to buy the next meal.

“We are not listening to Enya for the next ten hours.”

“Yes we are.” She looked at me with such fire I was sure lasers were going to come out of her eyes. “Enya calms me down. You know driving long distances gives me anxiety.”

“Then why did you suggest a road trip?”

She just stared at me. “I’m not going to argue with you, Mike. We’re not even out of the parking lot yet.”

“Maybe if someone hadn’t taken a thirty-minute shower this morning…”

Sarah shifted into reverse so hard I thought the car was going to be stuck going backwards forever. She’d never been a particularly great driver, all stereotypes aside, and truth be told I would’ve felt much better if I was able to wear more than one seatbelt.

Aside from the bullshit Enya song, there was dead silence between us. Every now and then the built-in GPS would tell Sarah where to go, but otherwise she refused to speak to me and I refused to acknowledge that she refused to speak to me. Awkward silences made me fidgety so I did everything I could to keep busy. By the time we pulled onto I-495 I’d checked my Twitter mentions fifteen times, counted license plates from six different states, counted down to forty-two bottles of beer on the wall, and mentally designed three new tattoos. Mostly I was ready to turn around and go home.

“You’re quiet,” Sarah said, glancing at me quickly before returning her eyes to the road. She’d opted for the windows down instead of the air conditioner; her blonde hair blew wildly around her.

“I’m fine.”

She snorted. “Bullshit.”

“I’m serious, Sarah. I’m fine, all right?”

Sarah muttered a string of curse words as a driver in the right lane cut her off. There has always been something insanely attractive about seeing a grown woman swearing and throwing up middle fingers like it was no big deal, but seeing Sarah do it made me feel like I should go to church and repent.

“That crap might work on those broads that don’t know any better, but you’re not fine, Mike.”

“Broads? Really?”

“You called me petulant.”

“Because that’s how you’re acting.”

“Should I just turn around and go home?” she asked, glancing at me again, only this time it made my skin crawl. “I’m trying to do something nice for you and you’re shitting in everyone’s cereal.”

“Ha!” I roared. “I don’t know if you know this, but forcing me to listen to Enya for ten hours isn’t nice, it’s torture, so if you plan on torturing me until we get to Kentucky, then maybe you should turn around.”

“You’re unbelievable,” she seethed. A sign advertised a rest stop and Sarah pulled the car into it, immediately throwing it into park as soon as she found an empty space. Then she ripped her sunglasses off like she was Tom Cruise in Top Gear and I was about to get the biggest scolding of my life. “What the fuck is your deal?”

“I don’t have a deal,” I retorted, crossing my arms over my chest like an overly defensive child. “You’re the one being all crazy.”

“You’ve been nothing but uncooperative and argumentative since the moment you woke up. If you didn’t want to do this you should’ve just said so. I’d rather you be honest with me than pull some shit like this.”

“Wait, wait, wait—what’d you just say? Unco-what-ative?”

Sarah shrieked before ripping her seatbelt off and storming out of the car. I huffed, figuring I’d give her a few minutes to be a drama queen before I went searching for her to apologize. All those cross-country trips we went on when we were younger felt like eons ago. At least we used to get along then. At the very least we used to listen to decent music.

I’d just dug my earphones out of my bag and got myself situated when there was a knock at my window, prompting congestive heart failure. Sarah was standing on the other side, motioning for me to put the window down.

“You could not try to give me a heart attack. That’s something you could put a conscious effort into trying not to do.”

“Shut up and take this,” she said, handing me a can of Pepsi. “I don’t give two and a half shits if you do or don’t drink soda. I bought it for you so you’re going to drink it.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said, cracking it open. Having not touched a can of soda in years, the first sip burned so bad I thought my nostrils were melting off my face. Sarah thought this was funny.

“Now, we’re not leaving until you tell me what your problem is.”

“Sarah—”

“I’m serious, Mike. I spotted a group of Caps fans over that way—” she pointed toward the restrooms, “—and I’m sure they’d just die if they knew their favorite team’s stud defenseman was sitting all alone in the car for the next ten hours.”

“You wouldn’t.” She raised an eyebrow, daring me to test her. “Are any of them hot? If the answer to that question is yes, do you mind if your backseat—”

“Michael!”

“Fine! But at least get back in the car.”

She shrugged, disappearing around the back of the Jeep before climbing back into the driver seat. She tucked one leg underneath her as she sat sideways, staring at me. It was intimidating, almost to the point that I got performance anxiety and couldn’t speak. But it was Sarah, for crying out loud—the same Sarah I’d known since we were nine, that I once saw pick her nose and wipe it on the underside of her desk in the fourth grade. How could I be intimidated by someone that wiped her boogers on her desk?

“When did you get so scary?”

“Probably when I became a teacher.”

“Well can you not do it around me? God, it’s like I can’t even talk to you without feeling like I’m gonna get detention for not doing my homework or something.”

“I’m trying to be serious here.”

I sighed. “It’s not that easy, Sarah. It’s not like I want to piss you off and have you yell and threaten me—”

“I did not threaten you.”

“Yes you did, but it’s whatever, all right? I’m not trying to argue and I’m not trying to ruin your trip.”

“Our trip,” she corrected.

“Right, our trip. It’s just hard right now, okay? You know how I get during the offseason and the whole Courtney situation isn’t helping.”

She tilted her head backwards as she groaned, letting out a yelp as it bumped into the window. “Can you put all your effort into not being so goddamn stubborn? I know you’re stressed and I know you wish it was you still in the playoffs, but why do you think I did all of this? I’m trying to help, Mike, and you’re really trying to make sure this is a huge disaster.”

I wanted to scoff. I wanted to tell her to stop taking everything so personally. I wanted to tell her to stop victimizing herself, because I’d just told her I wasn’t going out of my way to ruin our trip and while it was my fault I was feeling down in the dumps, I was trying to control it as best I could. Everyone feels lousy at some point. This was natural, and her chewing me out over it wasn’t going to solve anything.

But of course I didn’t do or say any of this.

There was something incredibly discomforting about having a heart-to-heart in a rest stop parking lot. There were too many people all doing weird things, like yelling at their children for running away from the car or yelling at their dogs to stop fidgeting when they were trying to put on the leash. Being inside Sarah’s Jeep muted most of the bullshit but occasionally it would seep through, and it wasn’t like the windows weren’t made of glass so I could still see what was happening. It was just weird.

“Can we just go? I’m sure I’ll be in a better mood once we get there.”

“So I have to deal with you being a brat for another nine hours?” Her smirk told me she was kidding and that things were fine between us, just like always. “I’m serious, though. If at any point you want to turn around and go home, just tell me. I won’t be mad.”

Yes you will, I thought to myself. It was no secret to anyone that this trip meant a lot to Sarah, and me deciding I’d had enough while we were somewhere in the middle of Arkansas or Nebraska wouldn’t bode well. Maybe she wouldn’t be angry, but she’d sure as hell be disappointed, and that was even worse. So I just nodded, hoping it’d get her off my back for the time being.

“My CD case is in the back if you want to pick something else.”

I started reciting the Lord’s Prayer as she maneuvered the car out of the rest stop, though my optimism was short-lived once I started thumbing through the music selection. Pink Floyd, 98 Degrees, A Tribe Called Quest and Aerosmith took up the sleeves of the first page—I was in Hell.

“I can’t listen to any of this,” I told her, simultaneously wondering why on earth she’d own The Very Best of Meatloaf. “Are you for real?”

Sarah gave me the finger as she pulled back onto I-495. There wasn’t much traffic at 2PM on a Tuesday. “Just put on Illmatic and shut up.”