Stone Cold

Dragging in a deep breath, I let it go, closing my laptop lid, and then I grab Domino’s leash to take him for another walk. I need a change of scenery and some fresh air and a new perspective.

Stone has always been an enigma; an impossible riddle.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to crack him open just to see what’s inside.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s nothing but a frozen block of ice.

Chapter Nine

Stone

* * *

Age 20

* * *

“Hold on, hold on,” Jovie scrolls through the playlist on her phone. “I have the perfect road trip mix.”

We’re halfway to Paul’s lake house and we’ve already stopped three times—once so Jude could take a piss on the side of the road, another time so Jovie could stretch her legs after riding a half hour in the backseat, and a third time so we could play musical chairs. Apparently Jude was up late last night working on a paper and he asked if I’d take over behind the wheel while he crashed in the back.

I figured Jovie would crash in the back with him seeing as how the two of them can’t go more than five seconds without touching one another or exchanging lovey dovey looks, but instead she climbed into the passenger seat, buckled up, and told me my Legal Beagle podcast was making her die a slow, painful death.

“Aw, yeah. Here we go …” Jovie leans back in her seat as a song by American Authors plays over the speakers. Swaying in her seat, she sings along—though not too loud. Eyes squeezed tight. She cracks the window a few inches and the smell of her raspberry perfume fills the air. “Come on!”

Jovie punches my arm.

“Don’t you just love this song?” she asks between lyrics. “Best Day of My Life—this song instantly puts me in the best mood.”

I focus on the road while she sings along. We don’t make it past the next exit before she’s unbuckling her seatbelt and opening the sunroof.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What’s it look like?” She hoists herself up, until her upper body is sticking out the top of the car.

“Hope you like bugs in your teeth,” I tell her.

“What?” she yells from above me. “I can’t hear you?”

I don’t buy it.

Glancing at the rearview, I check to see if all this commotion has woken the sleeping prince in the backseat, but he’s out cold.

We cruise another couple of miles before Jovie finally lowers herself back into her seat as a Rolling Stones song comes on.

“That … was amazing,” she says, sweeping her hair back into place. “You have to try it sometime.”

“I’m good.”

“No, seriously. Do you want to stop and I can drive so you can try it?”

“Thanks but no thanks.”

“You know … I’ve known you over a year now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you just let loose.”

“That’s because I don’t need to let loose.”

“But you never seem like you’re having fun.” She pulls her sunglasses off her nose, cleaning them with the hem of her tank top.

“That’s because I’m not having fun … I’m studying.”

She slips the glasses over her face and angles herself to me. “What made you want to become a lawyer?”

“It just seemed like a natural fit.” I like the idea of sticking up for people. That and I can be an asshole if I need to be. Some people are too soft for a career in law. “What made you want to get a degree in creative writing?”

“Because I have a million stories inside of me and holding them in is sheer torture,” she says. “Sure, I could’ve been a teacher or a doctor or something practical, but then I wouldn’t have time to write all of these stories. I had to pick. So I chose the one that spoke to my heart the loudest.”

“Poetic.”

“Try telling my parents that.” She tucks a strand of ice-blonde hair behind one ear.

“They don’t approve?”

“It’s not that they don’t approve, I think they’re just worried I won’t have a job after college,” she says. “I think they keep picturing me as a starving artist.”

“Valid concern,” I say. “Do you have a back-up plan in case the writing thing doesn’t pan out?”

“Nope.” Jovie reaches for her Diet Coke from the center console, taking a sip. “The writing thing is going to work out.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” she says. “It’s like a gut feeling. I can’t describe it. I close my eyes and I can see my future so clearly. When I try to imagine myself doing anything else …” she swipes her hand through the air. “… it’s all black. There’s nothing. Writing is it for me. If it’s not writing, it’s nothing.”

“Sounds like something a starving artist would say …”

She sniffs through her nose. “My parents would agree with you on that.”