how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

37. road trips & motels

nsfw

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I stare at my phone apprehensively, biting my lip and waiting for the text message to roll in. It's been two months since Maggie was found dead, and I've learned how to control my flashbacks. The night terrors are getting less and less frequent, and I've moved back in to the shop with my brother. It's three o'clock in the morning on New Year's eve, and I'm standing at the edge of the staircase outside my bedroom, a crappy faux leather jacket I bought for five dollars around my quivering body and my hair pulled up into a ponytail. I glance at the time on my phone, and tap my foot, my everything feeling jittery. Come on, hurry, hurry, hurry.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I leap up, covering my mouth with my hand and grinning. Now, it reads, and I run down the staircase, missing every worn out floorboard and noisy space. I keep my steps light as I jump over the shop counter and out the main entrance, scanning the pavement for the only car with its headlights on. It's black and almost blends in with the night, but it's bright with it's lights and I almost jump with joy. I rush down the pavement, looking up at all the windows in all the other houses. All the lights are off, and never have I ever been out so late at night where almost everyone is asleep. It's quiet and isolated, all except for me and the car with its headlights on.

I swing the passenger seat door open, hearing the familiar sounds of Welcome to Paradise by Green Day blaring quietly through the speakers and the smell of cookie dough and rain encapturing me from all ends of the car. I look at the driver, lean over, and press my mouth to his. He's sweet and tastes like watermelon, and I run my fingers up his neck and through his hair as his hands move across my waist and pulls me closer. His shoulders are stocky against my dainty hands, and I wonder if he still thinks I kiss like a kitten. His lips are a breath of fresh air -- I haven't kissed him in much too long.

Pulling away, I let my lips hover over his. Pulsing. Throbbing. Wanting more. "It's lovely to see you, Michael."

He smiles, emitting a breathy laugh and rubbing his hand up my faux-leather-clad spine. "It's lovely to see you, too, Maricruz."

I sit back down into the passenger seat, the blush heating up my cheeks moving down to my neck and across my chest. Despite the cold night and having no woollen clothes on, I feel warm -- and not only from the heating in his car. I tug my seat belt across and click it in, stretching out my legs underneath the dashboard and watching as Sherbrook Road fades away behind the vehicle as Michael steps on the accelerator and turns down the road. There's no light along the footpaths for a long time, forcing us to guess where we are just by the glowing headlights, but soon enough, streetlights begin to perch on every side of the roads, and we're washed up with more light. So much light, I think. The shadows play across Michael's face; his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and the shadow cast down by it mimics the action.

"You know," he says pensively, and I look at him, a smile playing with my lips as I play with the sleeve of my jacket. "I'm slightly proud of myself for actually making you a fan of Green Day."

"Oh, please. You say that like you aren't obsessed with Paramore."

He gives me a lopsided grin and scrunches up his face. "So, what're you gonna do when the world don't orbit around you?"

I laugh at his singing and shake my head. "It's good to be back with you, Mikey."

He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to take a good look at me. Our gazes meet, and I resist the temptation to lean in for a kiss. He says, "It really is."

We're quiet for a while, enjoying the presence of one another. I never really understood how much I missed just being near Michael. Now that he's sitting right next to me, his fingers wrapped around the wheel and humming along to whatever the hell this song's name is -- She's a Rebel, or something? -- and his eyes green and pressed along the road with laziness strong enough for me to know he'd much rather be looking at me. And that's a good feeling. I run my hand along his thigh and he whines softly, moving around in his seat as we move into the motorway. There are more streetlights and the roads have doubled up next to each other. There are vans more frequent than cars, and a heap of trees bordering either side of the massive space where vehicles speed across. I move my hand higher up his thigh.