Page 30 of Hauling Ashe

“It was?” She pauses. “I guess in my head I’ve called you tons of names.” She weakly huffs and I smile. I can only imagine.

“You can call me Ashe if you wish. My friends do.”

I don’t have to look at her to see the smile breaking out on her face. It’s lighting up the entire car and heating my skin. It’s also setting flame to my heart, and I might like the burn.

14

Playlist: “Route 66” – Chuck Berry

[Mae]

Ashe.

Ash with an “e,” he explained, but I am still basking in the glow of him calling me his friend. Or at least lumping me in with his friends and allowing me to call him Ashe. While the name seems fitting, I’ve grown accustomed to thinking of him as Tucker. Maybe calling him the more formal name will make me stand out from his favorite people.

He deflected the bomb he dropped about his parents, but I let the announcement slide and return to random yacking about our route so far. I’m honored he took me to the classic rock-themed coffee house and paid for another lunch. Along with covering the expense of last night’s motel, he also paid for our visit to the caves.

Today has been a much better day than yesterday, and as I thought earlier, Saturday looks good on him. He’s slightly more relaxed and looks damn sexy driving Louie, even if he isn’t a fan of the Prius. His long arms stretch for the steering wheel, letting his wrist do the driving at times, dangling over the upper curve. Once again, I check out the leather braid and beads around one wrist, wondering if they mean anything other than that he likes ornamentation.

Mid-afternoon, we pass another historic landmark—the Route 66 Drive-In in Carthage, Missouri.

“Ever been to a drive-in?” I ask, imagining him too busy feeling up a date in the backseat to watch a flick on the screen.

Tucker scoffs. “Can’t say that I have.”

My head turns in his direction. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope.” He pops the -p in his signature way.

“We must visit one,” I remark. Being the middle of the day, this location is not possible, but maybe somewhere else along our travels. We could find one near our next nighttime stop. Of course, that sounds like a date, but I’m only offering him the experience.

We drive through the small town and turn the corner as the GPS guides us. As we near another nostalgic looking motel, I squeal in delight. “We must stop.”

The squat white building looks like an old trailer diner and in pictures I’ve seen the lights around this structure illuminate bright green at night. For some reason, I really want to see it in the dark, in its glory with the neon glow around the flat roofline. The place is so classic motel-looking and on my list of potential overnight stops. Not to mention, I have sudden visions of what Tucker and I could do inside one of the rooms.

Maybe his hand could actually cup my breast, pinch my nipple and relieve the pressure within the achy swell. Maybe his fingers could skate lower, between my thighs and quell the ache that’s been building to volcanic proportions today. Maybe he could simply kiss me, fusing his mouth to mine, fueling the wattage of my desire.

Maybe I could wake up from my daydream and realize these things will never happen with him.

Tucker shakes his head as he often does at me, and we pull into the lot. “It’s too early to stop for the night.”

He’s right and yet everything in me wants to give this place my dollars. It’s so cute. Instead, I settle on another picture. Tucker has become quite the photographer and I don’t know how he does it with the filters on my phone. He catches every expression, often narrowing in on my face. My smile is crooked. One eye droops a bit, but my eye color is bright in the sunshine. My complexion looks good. He’s definitely playing with the filters.

We continue for the next twenty-five minutes turning left here, turning right there, as announced by the GPS until we enter downtown Joplin. The original route runs right through this town, and we find Mural Park, commemorating the old thoroughfare. Tucker indulges me once more with a picture before a partial car, embedded against the brick wall painted with a giant map of the journey to cross eight states over two-thousand miles.

“You mentioned your son likes art,” Tucker says as I stare at the large design.

“He does. Penciling is his medium. He loves to draw, not paint.”

“Do you have any examples?”

“I do actually. In my phone.” I’ve taken pictures of Owen’s sketches to share with my sisters. I’m proud of his talent. As Tucker holds the device, he helps himself to my photos and I scan the giant map one more time. We’re a little less than halfway on the trail. We’ve covered quite a distance though, and I feel less aggravated about the sightseeing experiences today compared to yesterday. Tucker has settled into being a decent travel companion. Perhaps it’s because he’s driving.

“He’s really good,” Tucker states, holding out my phone for a second so I can see one of Owen’s images. The detailed drawing isn’t some coloring book sketch. Owen has edged the art up a bit, making the lines harsher, crisper, not soft and delicate. We’ve sold some of his prints—Owen’s Originals—in our garden center gift store.

Tucker’s brow pinches and I step closer to him, wondering what he’s looking at next. Glancing over his arm, I notice he’s stopped on an outline of me. Owen needed a portrait for his art class in high school and I sat for him. Saying I look seductive in the drawing sounds silly, especially since I’m his mother, but I was gazing at him over my shoulder for this sketch. A window in the background highlights my profile and Owen captured every detail, every shade, in the drawing. My lowered lids. My downward nose. My slightly upturned lips.

Tucker swipes the screen, and a second image appears of me staring out the window as if I’m longing to go outside. I spend a lot of time outdoors. I love the smell of wet soil, cut grass, and of course, fresh flowers. Maybe I was yearning to be freed from the confines of my house. The sketches are roughly five years old, shortly after my divorce from Adam.