Either Way
In the morning, Angelo and Penryn went out as the best of friends. Their bags were packed with things they thought they'd need: water bottles, concert tickets, a few dollar bills, sweatshirts, Fitzgerald for Angelo, Hemingway for Penryn, notebooks, half-filled pens, coffee packets. They met at the park, where they'd spent most of their childhood. Angelo's red pick-up truck was filled with enough gas for an eight-hour roadtrip. Penryn was, as always, beyond ready to do what Angelo wanted to.
There was still a hint of light beneath the trees. They lived near a river, which meant it always was humid in their neighborhood. The sun was starting to rise, but they couldn't feel it; all they could feel was the vague sense that something—at least something—was found beneath, above, between, around them. Both Angelo and Penryn were okay with this vague sense—it made them feel a bit more fueled, if that was even possible.
Penryn was wearing that baggy sweatshirt her father handed to her when he saw her shivering in the cold, that one night on the freeway, when it was snowing and her whole family was trapped in absolution and despair. She loved it very much, and thought it was only appropriate to wear it today—a seemingly perfect day, a day that would be spent with her best friend.
When she got to the park, Angelo was already sitting on the bench under the tallest tree. He was hugging his backpack, his big backpack, and he looked cold. He was only wearing the blue plaid shirt, which Penryn had learned to get used to after all these years. Oh, had she learned to get used to how Angelo wore it: It was too big for him, but he carried it as if it were something important, as if it were the Golden Fleece. She loved that shirt almost as much as she loved her baggy sweatshirt.
Angelo looked up and saw the girl walking towards him, and his eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. He loved Penryn, but Penryn didn’t love him. He never saw even the slightest hint of a spark in her eyes. To the girl, Angelo was just a boy. He hated that fact.
“Good morning, lovely,” Penryn said, a smirk on her beautiful, beautiful face. It almost sounded like she was teasing him.
He continued to sit on the bench, frozen. Penryn, on certain occasions, called him these names: lovely, honey, baby. It felt warm to his ears, eyes, mouth. Like honey and lemonade. Like morning mildew, like the past he never really knew. And Angelo, he never knew just what to say. He always ran out of words. He hated that fact, too.
He stood up, and he offered to help her with her small luggage. But she refused. She always declined help, always liked to make a point—that point. That she could take care of herself. That she never needed help.
But he knew she did. Everyone needs help.
Even the undoubtedly perfect Penryn.
Angelo’s pick-up truck was parked on the curb. They could both see it from where they were standing, and it seemed quiet, peaceful. Sunlight hasn’t touched it yet, for some reason. It seemed so complete and delicate.
They dragged their bags across the mud. When they got to the truck, the two had a two-minute argument about where they should place the bags—inside or outside? Angelo said it would be better if they were just placed outside, where the bags could feel the wind (as if they were sentient); Penryn just wanted to place them inside the truck, between the driver’s and the shotgun’s seats.
Penryn won the argument.
And so, for the entirety of the morning, bags were sitting between them. Angelo put the key into the ignition with much force—he was stoked, to say the least. The sun had already risen; there was no mistaking the faint sound of the morning, the sound that would, one day, grab humanity by the neck, hoping to make it realize that there are much more important things than dreams and the lake, the damned lake.
Angelo was lost in thought. He was staring directly, intent on reaching their first destination. His hair was a mess—he could see it in the rearview mirror—and Penryn, being Penryn, didn’t forget to point this out.
“Your hair’s a mess, Angelo.” Her gentle voice was slowly blended with the faint sound of the morning, making the most beautiful sound Angelo had ever heard.
He didn’t have time to gush over this, though. Penryn reached up and messed up his hair even more. Now it really was a mess.
“The messier,”—she paused, and it was a very long pause—“the better.”
After a few minutes, Penryn started reaching for something inside her bag. She got it out and looked at it for a few seconds. It was a mixtape, and Angelo wasn’t familiar with it. She put it on, without saying a word. Her voice was blank. She didn’t even look at him. She just put the tape on, and almost immediately the car—the world, really, for the windows were open—was filled with the lovely voice of Ben Gibbard. Angelo looked over at Penryn. She was looking out the windows. Her hair was falling on her shoulders, on her sweatshirt. There were a few strands on her lips, too, and Angelo had to fight the urge not to sweep these strands with his fingers.
He looked ahead. He saw it: the nothingness they were slowly approaching. No one was speaking. Penryn was still looking out the window, and her hair was still falling down on everywhere. Angelo took one hand of the steering wheel and covered his left eye.
With the exceptional knowing that everything was about to go right, the boy continued to drive, trying not to realize—although he had already very much realized—that the girl sitting beside him wouldn’t ever be aware.
