ೃ⁀➷ In the year 1994,
Maya Bennet travels to New York to attend a famous music festival, Woodstock. After stumbling into the wrong tent when searching for her lost boyfriend, she has an odd interaction with a handsome mysterious stranger. A year l...
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Resting my head against the back seat of the Camaro, I pull my knees to my chest and rock my head against the leather as I look outside of my barely cracked window.
I watch the stars above us as he drives down the vacant dark backroads, listening to the muffled sounds of the music that plays from his stereo at a low volume.
We've been driving for maybe fifteen minutes now. It normally takes only five to get home from the diner, but because the storm's so bad, he can barely see what's in front of him.
He even suggested pulling over, but because there aren't any cars on the road, I told him it was alright to keep going. It's been silent for the most part between us, the sound of the music making it easier to stay relaxed in such an awkward and uncomfortable situation.
With one hand on the wheel, and another hand gripping a cigarette in between his pinched fingers, he repeatedly looks over at me and stares for what feels like forever.
Normally, I could imagine some girl would be flattered by the smirk they see in the corner of their eye. I however shuffle further up against the car to straighten my posture, hoping he's not silently judging my appearance.
When you don't know someone well it's hard to understand their intentions by their looks and demeanor. He could either be looking because he's intrigued or he could be looking and making fun of a pimple I won't realize is there until I get home. But whatever his reason is, it's making me nervous.
The last time we spoke a few minutes ago, he was still suggesting I say what I want to on Friday. He doesn't know what I want to say though. He isn't aware I want to believe this is all some sick joke. If he knew that was the case, he'd probably react like Dean does, and tell me to write what people want to hear. Which is understandable but that doesn't make this any easier.
Glancing down at the pieces of paper I have perfectly stacked on my lap, I trace my finger over the writing, feeling the pad of my index dip into the sheet where the ink had seeped inside and left a small dent. Tracing over the lines like I am rewriting the word with my touch, I repeat the words aloud in my head and think of what I might possibly write when I get home.
I've yet to write anything at all, but this page seems to say enough as it is.
Harry glances over at me once again as I face the radio, watching the time appear, showing it's now already close to eleven-thirty. His lips seem to curl up into that familiar troubled smirk, while I can't help but smile back, watching him shake his head as he refocuses on the road in front of us.
