Punk Love

I had a mental image of Alex’s tent, and it needed no setting up, and definitely not by my father. I told Dad Pauly’s mom was going to drive us and even had Pauly text my parents from her mom’s phone.

It was official. I was a fraud, and I was going to hell.

Finally, I got them off my back. Alex and I were booked to drive up north and spend a weekend in a small town on the coast.

That Friday, Alex picked me up looking like a prince.

Okay. I’ll amend. Like a punk rock prince.

He looked—and smelled—delicious, and I couldn’t take my eyes, or hands, off of him the entire trip up north. By that time, I had my own driver’s license, though I still couldn’t drive without an adult present, and only until a certain hour at night.

This, of course, didn’t stop Alex from throwing his keys into my hands as we got out of a 7-Eleven.

“Wanna give this baby a ride?” He jerked his chin toward his car.

“This baby is a Volvo SUV,” I pointed out, just because it was never going to stop being funny, “and I don’t want to wreck it.”

“You won’t wreck it.”

“How do you know?” I huffed. I was a pretty bad driver. Truth be told, I still am. I also have this thing where I can only drive one vehicle at a time in my life. Meaning now that I trained myself to drive my own car, I can never drive my husband’s. Not that my husband’s car is a stick or anything. It’s just not the exact same model as my car and therefore undrivable in my eyes.

Anyway. Back to Alex.

“I can’t drive your car.” I shook my head.

“You can, and you will. Come on. Don’t worry. I’m here. Besides, it’s all one open road. And a highway. Nothing bad can happen.”

“Are you sure I’m not going to wreck your car?” I asked.

“Positive. Let’s go.”

I wrecked his car.

Okay, maybe wreck is an exaggeration. But I bumped into a lamppost while parking, of all things, when we reached the hotel we were staying in.

I was horrified.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I was crying when I jumped out of the driver’s seat to check the damage, with Alex following closely behind me, making sure I didn’t get run over on top of giving him a fender bender.

“You’re fine, Honeypie. Shit happens. Hey. Hey. Look at me.” He wiped my tears and my hair away from my face. I wasn’t a crier. But I did cry now. Because I was terrified we were both going to get into huge trouble.

His brown eyes held mine in a death grip, refusing to let me look anywhere else. His hands cupped my cheeks. We were standing in the middle of the street.

“Listen carefully now. You are fine. Nothing happened. You didn’t hit a pedestrian, or get into a car crash, or wreck my car. It’s just a fender bender, and I will deal with it when we get back home. I’ll take full responsibility. No one will ever know you were driving the car. You hear? Stop this nonsense and try to have fun this weekend. Please.”

He sounded so calm, so confident and self-assured, I couldn’t not-believe him. It sucked majorly to let Alex take the blame, and yet, it gave me a lot of confidence and a mental hard-on to know he had my back.

The first day, we spent walking on the beach and eating at a restaurant.

I browsed through the menu for a total of twenty minutes without making a decision.

“The pasta with the olive oil and oregano is really good. A favorite among vegetarians,” the waitress suggested helpfully.

“The pasta probably has eggs in it.” I scrunched my nose.

Alex watched me from across the table, amused.

“And?” he asked.

“And I’m vegan.” I straightened my back, offended.

A slow smile spread across his lips. “No, you’re not.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused. You are also not vegan. Not completely, anyway. Your brother told me you eat some egg products here and there. A little dairy on the weekends.”

“That little sh…” They were freedom eggs. Them chickens had a better life than mine, okay?

“Hey,” Alex laughed, “I paid him well for his investigative services. It was early on, when I didn’t know where to take you to eat and needed ideas. I don’t care. Like, really don’t give a flying fuck. Not about you eating eggs, or milk, or steak, and not about the guitar you haven’t used once since I’ve given it to you.”

Something passed between us just then.

A film of authenticity. I wondered why we weren’t like that all the time. Just…completely honest.

I saw him looking at me, and I felt naked. Deliciously naked. Because I knew he loved me not only for the things he thought I represented, but for who I was, too. Imperfections be damned.