American Sweethearts

20

"Can you slow down?" I ask, clinging onto the door handle.

Tyler doesn't respond. He's driving like a maniac, speeding down the road at a thousand miles an hour. He removes his hands from the wheel, using his knees up to steer.

"Tyler!" I scold.

He ignores me. He picks his phone up out of the centre console, staring down at the screen.

"You can't do that!" I yell. "Drive properly!"

"Shut up!"

"Drive normally!"

He brings his phone up to his ear, placing his spare hand back on the wheel. But it barely gives me any comfort. I'm shaking so hard, my teeth keep clanging together. I swear, if he doesn't start driving properly, I'll end up scratching my skin until it bleeds.

"What the fuck did you do?!" Tyler spits into the phone. "Pay your fucking debts, you son of a bitch! I swear, we're fucking done with you!"

I can barely make sense of his words. My eyes are glued to the road, watching us swerve between the other vehicles. But I can only see the vague outline of headlights. I'm shaking so bad, I can't focus my eyes.

"You think I won't fire your ass? Because I fucking will!" Tyler continues. "I'm fucking shit of this shit!"

"Tyler," I whisper, feeling the bile rise in my throat.

"This is my fucking team you're fucking with! My team!"

"Tyler," I repeat, slightly louder this time.

"I'm the only one keeping you in this fucking business right now. I've given you chance after chance and you keep fucking me over!"

"Tyler!"

"What?!" he spits, turning his attention to me.

"You need to- You need...," I stumble over my words, struggling to stop my heart from jumping out of my chest.

"I need to what?! Huh?!"

"Pull over," I mumble.

"What the fucks wrong with you?!" he scowls. "You do know I saved your fucking ass back there, right?"

"Pull over."

"Jesus Christ-,"

"Pull over!"

"Fuck, relax," he widens his eyes, slowing down the vehicle at the side of the road.

Before it's even stopped, I jump out, falling down on my hands and knees. I can feel the pavement scrape over my skin, but I don't care. I try to regulate my breathing, counting every time I inhale and exhale.

"Will you calm down?" Tyler grumbles, leaning over me. "He's not even dead!"

I shake my head, but I can't respond. If I open my mouth, I'm going to vomit.

"Seriously, stop it. You're being pathetic," he says.

This isn't about the guy in our apartment. This is about his driving. He saw me have a panic attack just a few days ago, how does he not realise that that's what's happening now?

"I shouldn't be fucking surprised," he scoffs. "All you fucking do is overreact."

Bon Iver, The National, The Shins, Volcano Choir. Bon Iver, The National, The Shins, Volcano Choir.

You've got this. Keep it under control. My breathing is already beginning to stabilise, and my shaking has reduced significantly.

"We don't have time for this shit!" Tyler urges. "We need to leave. Now!"