LITMIR.BIZ

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muscles like when I rode on the bus, but I feel good.

      “Where are we?” I ask, cupping my hand over my mouth to cover the yawn.

      “Middle of nowhere Wellington, Kansas,” he says. “You slept a long time.”

      I rise up the rest of the way and let my eyes and body adjust to being awake again. Andrew pulls onto another road.

      “I guess I did, better than I slept on the bus the entire trip from North Carolina to Wyoming.”

      I look at the glowing blue letters on the car stereo: 10:14 p.m. A song is funneling low from the speakers. It makes me think of when I met him back on the bus. I smile to myself feeling like he made sure to keep it at a low level in the car while I slept.

      “What about you?” I ask, turning around to see him, the darkness casting his face in partial shadow. “I feel weird offering because it’s your dad’s car, but I’m good to drive if you need me to.”

      “Nah, you shouldn’t feel weird,” he says. “It’s just a car. A precious antique that my dad would string your ass up from a ceiling fan for if he ever knew you were behind the wheel, but I would totally let you drive it.” Even in the shadow, I see the right side of his mouth pull into a devious grin.

      “Well, I’m not so sure I want to anymore.”

      “He’s dying, remember? What’s he gonna do?”

      “That’s not funny, Andrew.”

      He knows it’s not. I’m fully aware of the game he’s playing with himself, always looking for anything to help him cope with what’s going on but coming up short. I just wonder how much longer he’ll be able to keep this up. The misplaced jokes will eventually run dry and he’s not going to know what to do with himself.

      “We’ll stop at the next motel,” he says, turning onto another road. “I’ll get some shut-eye there.”

      Then he glances over at me. “Separate rooms, of course.”

      I’m glad he had that part sorted out so fast. I may be driving awkwardly across the U.S. alone with him, but I don’t think I can share a room with him, too.

      “Great,” I say, stretching my arms out in front of me with my fingers locked. “I need a shower and to brush my teeth for about an hour.”

      “No arguments there,” he jokes.

      “Hey, your breath isn’t all that great, either.”

      “I know it,” he says, cupping one hand over his mouth and breathing sharply into it. “It smells like I ate that horrid shit casserole my aunt makes for Thanksgiving every year.”

      I laugh out loud.

      “Bad choice of words,” I say. “Shit casserole? Really?” I mentally gag.

      Andrew laughs, too.

      “Hell, it might as well be—I love my Aunt Deana, but the woman was not blessed with the ability to cook.”

      “Sounds like my mom.”

      “That must suck,” he says, glancing over. “Growing up on Ramen noodles and Hot Pockets.”

      I shake my head. “No, I taught myself how to cook—I don’t eat unhealthy food, remember?”

      Andrew’s smiling face is lit up by a soft gray light pouring from the light posts along the street.

      “Oh, that’s right,” he says, “no bloody burgers or greasy fries for little Miss Rice Cakes.”

      I make a bleh! face, disputing his rice cake theory.

      Minutes later we’re pulling into a small two-floor motel parking lot; the kind with rooms that open up outside instead of an inside hallway. We get out and stretch our legs—Andrew stretches legs, arms, his neck, pretty much everything—and we grab our bags from the backseat. He leaves the guitar.

      “Lock the door,” he says, pointing.

      We enter the lobby to the smell of dusty vacuum cleaner bags and coffee.

      “Two singles side by side if you’ve got them,” Andrew says, whipping out his wallet from his back pocket.

      I swing my purse around in front of me and reach in for my little zipper wallet. “I can pay for my room.”

      “No, I got it.”

      “No, seriously, let me pay.”

      “I said, no, alright, so just put your money away.”

      I do, reluctantly.

      The middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair pulled into a sloppy bun at the back of her head looks at us blankly. She goes back to tapping on her keyboard to see what rooms are available.

      “Smoking or non-smoking?” she asks, looking at Andrew.

      I notice her eyes slip down the length of his muscled arms as he fishes for his credit card.

      “Non-smoking.”

      Tap, tap, tap. Click, click, click. Back and forth between the keyboard and the mouse.

      “The only singles I have right next to each other are one smoking and one non-smoking.”

      “We’ll take them,” he says, handing her a card.

      She pulls it from between his fingers and all the while she watches every little move his hand makes until it falls away from her eyes down behind the counter.

       Hmm.

      After we pay and get our room keys, we head back outside and to the car where Andrew grabs the guitar from the backseat.

      “I should’ve asked before we got here,” he says as I follow alongside him, “but if you’re hungry I can run up the street and get you something if you want.”

      “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

      “Are you sure?” He looks over at me.

      “Yeah, I’m not hungry at all, but if I do get hungry I can just get something from the vending machine.”

      He slides the keycard into the first door and a green light appears. He clicks open the door afterwards.

      “But there’s nothing but sugar and fat in those things,” he says, recalling our earlier conversations about junk food.

      We walk into the fairly dull-looking room with a single bed pressed against a wood headboard mounted behind it on the wall. The bedspread is brown and ugly and scares the crap out of me. The room itself smells clean and looks decent enough, but I have never slept in any motel without stripping the bed of the bedspread first. There’s no telling what’s living on them, or when the last time was they were washed.

      Andrew inhales deeply, getting a good whiff of the room.

      “This is the non-smoking room,” he says, looking around as if inspecting it first. “This one’s yours.” He sets the guitar down against the wall and walks into the small bathroom, flips on the light, tests out the fan and then goes over to the window on the other side of the bed and tests the air conditioner—it is the middle of July, after all. Then he goes to the bed and carefully pulls back the comforter and examines the sheets and pillows.

      “What are you lookin’ for?”

      He says without looking at me, “Making sure it’s clean; I don’t want you sleeping in any funky shit.”

      I blush hard and turn away before he can see it.

      “Kind of early for bed,” he says, stepping away from the bed and taking up the guitar again, “but the drive did take a lot out of me.”

      “Well, technically you haven’t slept since before we got off the bus back in Cheyenne.”

      I drop my purse and

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