Fix You // Matt Healy

4

"Matt, slow down," 

"Never," 

"Seriously, Matt! I don't want this!" 

"I bet you do," 

"Please, stop," my voice quivered. 

He saw the look in my eyes, probably the tears, too, and slowed down. His hand gently slid from the steering wheel as he lifted his foot off the gas. We had been driving around the town for a while in his band's pick-up truck and he had made some remark about how fast the truck could go. 

I, stupidly, told him I doubt it could get over 120, so he decided to test my theory. That was a dumb idea. Luckily, it was just past midnight and there weren't any people or cops around to see us. 

Shortly after Matt kissed me, he got this crazy idea to go to the nearest store for ice cream. The only 24-hour convenience store is almost forty minutes away from my flat when walking, so he decided to hotwire his own truck. 

"I'm sorry, El," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road yet placing his hand on my knee. He always knows how to comfort me. 

"S'okay," I manage, reaching into my purse for a candy to calm my nerves. 

"Is that how you calm down?" he chuckles, "Haven't you ever heard of cigarettes, babe?" 

"Yes," I snap, "but some of us don't want to die before kids and marriage and big jobs. 

"Never thought of it that way... It's a good thing I don't want any of that, right?" his eyes have gone dark again, something I noticed he does when he's upset or about to get angry. 

To prove his statement, he pulls a joint out of the pocket of his red flannel. 

"Uh, NO. I am not sitting in this car if you're about to hotbox it. Plus, you're not driving high," I snatch the joint out of his hand and toss it onto the ground, squishing it under my foot. 

"Fuck, Elliot, that was just tobacco, I rolled fresh stuff myself. I don't do weed. You owe me a smoke," 

I can't decide if he's serious or not, but before I find out, we're at the store. 

--- 

"Don't pick vanilla, cherry or double chocolate," he instructs, handing me a few bills to go inside and get ice cream while he waits in the car. 

I roll my eyes at his bossiness yet follow his instructions anyways. It turns out the store's only other option was mint chocolate chip, so that's the kind I was forced into getting. The greasy cashier gives me the once-over before taking my purchase and handing me back the change. He looks to be around 45, perhaps single and lonely. Maybe that's why he's trying to find comfort in 22 year olds. Or maybe, he just lost his daughter and he saw her somehow in me. My brain's on alert now as I process the man in front of me. I snap out of it when I see him shift uncomfortably under my gaze. Embarrassed, I rush out to the car.