“Why not?”
“Because we’re on a schedule.”
“Since when?”
“Since you got into my car in a white dress.”
I stare some more. He continues to look at the road.
Dammit.
I put my feet down, reach into my tote bag, and pull out my notebook.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Writing my thoughts down.” I flip to a fresh page.
“And what are those?”
I write the words, then read them back. “How the man driving this car won’t pull over and fuck me.”
He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a choke. He clears his throat, briefly tightening his grip on the wheel, then looks at me with an expression I haven’t seen before.
“You’re not usually—” he starts.
“Crass?” I offer.
“I was going to say blunt.”
“All these days of fresh air,” I say. “It does things to a person.”
He reaches over without looking, takes the notebook directly out of my hands, and throws it into the back seat.
“Hey.”
“You’re in my car.”
“That’s my property.”
“And I’m your confessional. Talk to me.”
I look at the back seat, where my notebook has landed face down on Gerald. Gerald appears unbothered.
I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not the same. Writing it out first means I can choose what to say. This way, you get everything unfiltered.”
“That’s the point. Talk.”
I look out the window. The coastline is incredible. It’s the kind of view that makes the inside of my own head feel less overwhelming.
“Okay, fine. Some rules.”
He gives me a sidelong glance, but stays silent.
“For our confessionals, you tell me one, I tell you one. We go back and forth.” I pull my knee up to my chest. “Nothing heavy. We’ve had enough heavy.”
He considers this.
“No repeats. No lying. No skipping.”
