Red Soul | Eddie Munson

𝕏𝕏𝕏𝕍𝕀𝕀𝕀. 𝔸𝕥 𝕃𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕀'𝕞 𝕋𝕣𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘

"It's like one step forward
and two steps back. No
matter what I do, you're
always mad."
╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

"I can drive."

Eddie has been driving for a good six hours now, other than a bathroom break at hour four. Six hours without any talking. To be fair, I did take an hour nap.

He shakes his head, his mouth full of Doritos. "Nah. Maybe when we need to get more gas."

"When do you think that will be?" I ask. Not that it matters. I think I'm trying to fill the silence. I have never been stuck somewhere with Eddie where we were silent for this long.

"Maybe an hour or two," he tells me.

I lean my head against the window. "Okay."

There's another silence, but it's only for a few minutes. Eddie clears his throat, grabbing my attention. "You know, I brought a couple joints."

I find myself smiling at him. "Yeah?"

He drums on the steering wheel. "Well, more like five... Or six."

"You know California is, like, a hot spot for weed, right?" I chuckle. "I've actually heard Jonathan has been smoking a lot. El calls it a smelly plant."

"She isn't wrong," Eddie says. "You want to light one of these up or no?"

"Fuck it," I tell him. "Light that bitch up."

He reaches into the front pocket of his flannel and pulls out one of the joints, the end of it pinched between his pointer finger and thumb. He hands it to me just like that. I grab it from him and stick it in my mouth, then fish for the lighter in my jacket pocket.

"You smoked in awhile?" he asks. I light it and breathe the smoke in deeply, causing me to cough. "I take that as a no."

"Not for a month or so," I say, wiping the tears the cough caused. I sink down into my seat, my eyes drooping from the relaxing feeling the weed is giving me. "Wow."

I hand the joint to him and he hits it. "Miss that feeling, don't you?"

"Yeah." I grin. "Everyone but you has shitty weed."

"You, uh... Miss me?"

I freeze. Of course I miss him. It's hard to not miss him. We were together every day for two years of my life, for chrissakes. But do I admit that I miss him?

I lick my lips as I think of a way to respond that isn't mean, but isn't necessarily giving him anything. "Um... Let's not talk about that."

"Oh, yeah. Sure." He takes another hit. "Sorry."

I reach over and take the joint from him. "You don't need to be sorry."

We sit in the smoke filled car, just basking in our highs — mine most likely worse than Eddie's. He turns the volume of the music up and we glance at each other when we realize what song starts playing. I know we're thinking the same thing, do we sing?

We make the decision at the same time, jumping straight in. "Has he lost his mind? Can he see, or is he blind?"

We lose it. Both of us start laughing so hard we're in tears. It isn't that funny; it's just a side effect from the weed, but here we are anyway.

"Hey!" he suddenly yells and points. "Cows!"

"Moo cows," I giggle, causing us to laugh again. Then I pout. "I didn't even see them. It's too dark."

It's seven in the evening at this point. The sun set a couple hours ago, leaving me to not be able to really stare at anything out the window instead of talking to Eddie. I'm glad he brought weed, though. I think it helped me open up a little.

"I know you said not to talk about it, but I don't think I realized just how much I missed you, Jules," Eddie admits. "No one compares to you."

What, no one compares to me in bed? It's only been a few weeks since our fight, so it isn't like he's had enough time to form a relationship with another girl. Besides, I've heard through the grapevine he's literally had some bitch at his place every weekend.

"In bed you mean, right?" I blurt out.

"In bed? What are you talking about?"

"Don't act like I'm stupid," I snort. "I know you've been taking girls home from the bar. And it wasn't just the one I saw you with."

"I think you're getting in your head," he says. "I wouldn't smoke anymore if I were you, you're just gonna keep digging deeper into those kind of thoughts."

"You're seriously trying to deflect right now?" I cross my arms and look back out the window. "I know how to handle my goddamn weed. I'm not in my head, I'm just calling out your shit."

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him grip the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "Whatever. I was just trying to have a nice moment."

We fall into silence again. My high mind is going back and forth between apologizing and continuing to fight with him some more. I don't know why I have the urge to keep bickering with him over everything. Nothing that's happened is even remotely his fault. But he did tell me to leave him alone using the meanest phrasing I have ever heard, and now he's in my car, driving to California with me, trying to pretend everything is fine.

I sigh, leaning my head against the window. Everything is not fine, and I worry it never will be again.