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“Since I’ve arrived, I’ve been subjected to nothing but questions. Now it’s your turn. So why no girlfriend?”
“Just never found someone I thought could handle all of this,” he said, making a broad gesture down to his toes.
“Defensive and secretive, the Southern male deflects the personal question with posturing and a sexual reference intending to make the inquisitor uncomfortable,” I said in my best nature documentary narrator’s voice.
“OK, fine. My family is sort of nuts, right? There are a lot of traits I don’t want to pass along to kids. And most women, if they’re the nice, marrying sort of girl you want to date seriously, are going to want kids. I have learned from experience that if you leave that little detail out in the first couple of dates, it only ends in tears and thrown drinks.”
“That is a refreshingly honest answer,” I told him. “See what happens when you’re forced to keep your shirt on?”
“Smart-ass.”
* * *
We stopped somewhere in northern Georgia so we could eat a late lunch of fried bologna sandwiches at a Huck’s convenience store. I had never before experienced the delicacy of fried bologna, but I can’t say it was anything worse than what Penny came up with for some holiday meals.
After answering several questions about defensive driving and basic auto maintenance, I was “allowed” to take over driving to give Jed a chance to rest. I filled the gas tank, since it was my errand we were running. While I was pumping the gas, he emerged from the convenience store with a bag filled with beef jerky, Corn Nuts, Twizzlers, and other culinary delights.
“We just ate,” I reminded him, although I hated to do anything to jeopardize the broad white grin on his face.
“If you’re going to have an American road-trip experience, you should have all the trimmin’s.”
“So you promised Andrea I would receive the full-service package?” I asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.
He buckled his seatbelt, clearly less comfortable sitting in the passenger seat. “How can you say things like that and not expect me to turn them into a filthy joke?”
“I fully expect you to turn them into a filthy joke. Sno-Balls!” I cried, snatching the pink package from the bag and diving into coconut-covered goodness. “I haven’t had these since I was a kid!”
“Can’t have a road trip without them,” he said solemnly as I pulled the truck into traffic. He winced as I carefully changed lanes and pulled to a stop at a yellow light. Men were such babies when it came to their vehicles.
But it wasn’t a baseless concern, as it turned out. The farther south we drove, the heavier traffic got. I noticed there seemed to be more lanes, transitioning from two to three to six. The road department seemed to be doing random experiments in how to frustrate drivers, because I could see no rhyme or reason in the way they chose to repair the roads. My fellow drivers and I would move at a reasonable rate until I came screeching up to a car parked in the middle of the bloody lane. I would switch lanes, sometimes looking over my shoulder beforehand. And on occasion, Jed’s head would end up smacking against the window.
“You know, you can pull over anytime,” he said. “I’m good to drive again.”
“We’re in Atlanta city limits. Every exit I’ve seen is either closed for construction or blocked by idiots.”
A semi-truck swept past us, changing lanes and nearly clipping us. I was so worried about that I barely noticed that the car right in front of us had slowed to a near stop. I yelped, whipping the wheel to the left and pulling past, only to have another car slide into the lane ahead of us, honking like mad and zipping around a bus full of schoolchildren.
“I am not prepared for all this traffic!”
“It’s fine,” he promised. “It’s always like this.”
“It’s not fine. I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown! Which is a problem, because we are moving at eighty bloody miles an hour!”
“Just breathe, baby. Just breathe, and try to focus on one thing at a time, make one decision at a time.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a mentally challenged toddler. And this is not because I’m a woman driver. This is because I am used to living in a place where traffic jams are caused by truant sheep!”
He frowned. “Are there a lot of sheep in Boston?”
Just then, the rather large tanker truck marked “explosive” stopped to avoid stalled traffic ahead of us. I saw an opening between two cars and switched lanes, then switched again and made a sudden turn into the last before screeching to a halt on the shoulder of the road. I was shaking so badly it felt like shivering. Jed had to put the car in park, because my fingers were clamped around the steering wheel in a death grip. His fingers gently pried mine from the wheel, and my hands wound their way around his neck. Once again, I was clinging to him like a frantic primate.
“It’s OK.” He chuckled, rubbing my back.
“No, these people are crazy, and they are trying to kill us,” I said, sniffing. He laughed, threading his fingers through my hair and pressing my face against his neck. How could someone who spent so much time sweating in the sun smell so good and clean? He was a one-man fabric-softener commercial.
Jed kissed my temple, my cheekbone, an innocent gesture. I tilted my face toward his and let his breath wash over my skin. A strange, giddy excitement fluttered through my chest, making me grip his shirt even tighter. My nose nudged against his, and I could feel the tips of his eyelashes against my brows.
I surged forward, pressing my lips against his. He made a shocked murmuring sound before sliding his hands against my back and pressing me closer. He pulled my bottom lip into his mouth and nibbled at it. I tried to move closer, but my seatbelt yanked me back against the seat. Grunting, he fumbled for the belt release, cupped my face between his hands, and hauled me to him. I was this close to crawling into his lap when a truck passed by and blared its horn.
