Heart of Stone - final revised version :)

I Should Hate This

After I expressed interest in The Beatles, Brendon started digging through his bag and pulled out some 8-tracks.

"I bought every Beatles one I could find." He tells me as he pops a dark blue one into the player.

We listen to every 8-track Brendon has as I watch the skyscrapers and tall palm trees change into small shrubs surrounded by sand and mountains.

We don't say a word to each other except when Brendon tells me to "turn left here" or "keep following this road" as he glances down at the map.

We've been driving for nearly five hours when I feel the car start slowing down. The engine sputters and jerks. No. No no no no. Not fucking today.

I keep my foot on the accelerator, praying for the car to move faster. The car then comes to a complete stop, and only then do I look at the fuel gauge. Empty.

"Shit." I whisper.

"What happened?" Brendon asks, oblivious to the situation.

"We fucking ran out of gas." I sigh in frustration.

"That doesn't make any sense. I filled up the tank this morning." He says defensively.

I think for a second then bring my hand to my forehead. "I forgot why Royals were shit. They eat up gas like crazy."

"Well shit. I didn't know that." He states in wonder.

"Well you fucking should've!" I slam the steering wheel. There is no way in hell that I am being stranded in a desert. Shit like that only happens in movies. I scoff in disbelief. Figures.

His eyes fill with a mix of frustration, anger, and fear. "Well we can't do anything about it now. I'm going to go take pictures for your stupid movie while we're stuck out here." He grabs his camera from the back seat and gets out of the car.

"Wait, what?" I climb out and slam the door. "You can't leave me here!" I yell after him. As much as I hate him, being stranded in the desert alone is one hundred percent deadlier than being stranded with somebody else.

He turns around, about ten feet in front of me. "Then grab your bag and let's go, asshole." He continues walking away from me.

I reluctantly open the trunk and take my bag out, slamming the door and hurrying after Brendon.

I keep my distance as I walk, dragging my feet through the grainy soil, and occasionally looking up at Brendon, who has my notes one hand and a camera in the other.

I stuff my hands in my jean pockets and feel the sun shine on my face. It's a pretty warm day for December.

I don't need this right now. I don't want to be stranded in the middle of nowhere. And with Brendon, of all people.

I hear a click from Brendon's camera. Click. Click. Click click click.

If I'm out here any longer with this kid I swear I'll explode.

***

We've been wandering around for several hours, not speaking to one another. The sun is beginning to set and the air becoming crisp. Brendon continues to walk ahead of me, but stopped taking pictures a while ago. Good.

I observe the way he walks: rushed and on edge. He's tripped 72 times in the past 3 hours.

I think about asking him if he got any good shots of naked squirrels, but decide against it. Now doesn't seem like the right time.

The mountains begin to form a sandy corridor around us, with wind-carved crevices and caves decorating the rock.

"Far out." I hear Brendon say. It's the first time he's spoken since we left the car.

I shiver as a breeze washes over me. I pull my brown sports jacket tighter around my chest. I continue the constant chant in my head of I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. I don't-

Brendon's voice interrupts my thoughts. "We should probably find a place to sleep tonight. It's getting dark, and we're obviously nowhere near civilization." He turns to me, expecting a fight.

"Okay." I say simply, too tired to do much else.

He finds a cave that's rather large, and the ground is covered in soft sand. I throw down my duffel bag and pull out a water bottle.

Brendon stares, annoyed. "You didn't tell me you brought water."

"Of course I did. I'm not an idiot." I grab another one and toss it to him.

He looks at me questioningly. "How many do you have in there?"

"I dunno. Thirty ish?"

He chuckles a little. "Why the hell did you bring thirty water bottles?"

I shrug. "I like to be prepared." I take a sip. Okay, so I might have a slight paranoia problem. I've heard plenty of horror stories of hikers getting lost and dying of dehydration. Every possibility of shit that could happen on this trip went through my head before I left, and being stranded was definitely one of them. That doesn't mean I actually thought it would happen.

I guess over-preparing does come in handy once in a while

Brendon sighs and sits next to me. We silently drink our waters and gaze at the sand wall opposite us until Brendon speaks up.

"How long do you think we'll be stuck out here?" His voice is quiet and cautious. Scared, almost.

"Hopefully not too long. I need to work on this movie if I'm gonna make a substantial profit."

He laughs spitefully. "God, you're all about money, aren't you?"

"Pretty much yeah." What else is there? I've built myself on money.

"So you don't care about the meaning of the film, just the dough you make off it?"

"Well when you put it that way, I sound like an asshole. Oh, wait. I am." I chuckle.

He rolls his eyes. "At least you're self-aware." He finishes off his water. "I'm going to sleep now. And since it's fucking freezing, I suggest you do too. Body heat, you know?"

"No fucking way." I almost laugh. "There's no way I'm cuddling up next to you to keep you warm."

"Have fun getting hypothermia, then." He lies down in the sand and uses his polyester beige coat as a blanket.

"Fuck you and your hypothermia." I mutter as I curl up next to my duffel bag, trying to keep warm. The kid actually thinks I'll sleep next to him. A breeze blows across me, and I shiver and rub my arms. I glance over to Brendon, who is sleeping like a fucking baby, his eyes closed and lips curled up into that slight smirk that gives an air of defiance to him. He looks different without his glasses, which are placed neatly on the sand next to him.

After about a half hour, my efforts to stay away from him ultimately fail. The cold has become unbearable, so I scoot over to Brendon and curl up next to him. "I hate you for being right." I whisper.

Brendon pulls the jacket over me and laughs as he whispers back, "Get used to it."

Despite my conscience flashing warning signs, I curl my arm around his waist. He tenses a little, but eventually relaxes into the touch. And the worst part: I don't hate this feeling.

I could actually live with this. Brendon feels warm against me, his black locks brushing my neck. My arm raises and lowers with his steady breathing. Hearing him breathe is comforting.

But then again, I should hate this.

But I don't.