Love, Dad | ✔️

11 | FORGIVE YOUR PARENTS

"Now, remember, clutch in, shift to first." David points towards the blue Pontiac's worn gear shift. "Ease off the clutch slowly while you press down on the gas." His voice is so patient, kind and encouraging. A total contrast to the gruff instructions I got from Mom just two months ago.

The engine lurches forward, sputtering like a startled cat, before settling into a hesitant hum. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, heart pounding, knuckles white against the worn leather.

Dave's presence beside me is a source of quiet comfort. The awkwardness of the kiss from the previous night lingers — a silent question mark hanging in the air.

I choose to focus on the delicate dance of clutch and gas pedal instead as morning sunlight streams through the smeared windshield, painting the empty parking lot in a golden glow.

Monday. Our fourth day on the road, after yet another night spent in the "comfort" of the car seats. The meager cash stash we began with is dwindling faster than either of us anticipated, partly due to that Van Halen concert. 

But hey, I regret nothing. And I'm not worried. We'll sleep somewhere close to Las Vegas and from there, it'll just be a little over four hours to L.A.

Tomorrow at around this time, I'm gonna see my Dad. He'll figure something out about the money, that much I know. Right now, all that matters is my lesson, this quiet hum of the engine, and the heat radiating from the body beside me.

The morning air got unexpectedly chilly and Dave insisted on lending me his jacket despite the rising sun. Now, bundled in denim and leather that carries his scent, I feel a comfortable weight that goes beyond just warmth. It's a tangible reminder of what transpired the night before.

David smoothly helps me shift gears, his hand accidentally brushing against my knee while reaching for the shifter, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

"That's enough learning for today, don't you think?" He winks, the gesture playful, yet undeniably suggestive. 

My cheeks flush and I touch my lips, the memory of the previous night's kiss still vivid.

The sudden blare of music cuts through the unspoken words. Dave turns up the radio, and the opening riff of a familiar Van Halen song washes over us. A blush deepens on my face – the song is the one we danced to at the concert.

We switch seats and we are on our way, though he pulls the car to a stop at the exit of the supermarket parking lot, the engine sighing softly. Then he gazes out the window at a line of semi-trucks ready to rumble down the highway.

"Look at those beasts," he murmurs, a hint of awe in his voice. "Always dreamt of driving one of those across the country. "Maybe someday, huh?"

The thought of Dave behind the wheel of a hulking semi-truck conjures an image so outlandish it makes me laugh.

"Maybe," I joke back. "Like, just promise not to leave me in a cloud of diesel fumes in the middle of nowhere."

He grins a slow, easy grin that sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach. "Wouldn't dream of it. Besides, the view wouldn't be nearly as good without you here."

The compliment hangs heavy in the air, leaving me speechless for a moment. The radio continues to blare, Van Halen's energetic music filling the car, as Dave goes silent too.

I follow his gaze: beyond the glass, stands a pair of rigs pulling huge trailers hulking semi-trucks, their chrome grilles gleaming defiantly in the night.

In a way, truckers are like nomads of the open road, their steel steeds their only companions. Each one a mystery, carrying a cargo of unknown goods and a driver harboring stories etched in miles.