No Tomorrow

He’s echoed the question I’ve posed to myself many times in many different scenarios.

“I really don’t know. Is there a difference?”

“I think there is. Either is okay as long as you’re happy. Me? I never feel content. There’s always that feeling that there’s more out there I need to see. More people I need to meet. More things I need to do. It haunts me.”

“You’re restless.”

“Yeah. I want it, though.” The grip of his hand on my waist brings a dull pain, and I realize his fingers are directly over the fading bruises from the night under the bridge. A wave of heat warms my inner thighs. “I want contentment,” he says.

“I’m sure you’ll find it.” I hope he finds it right here in this tiny town, with me.

“Hope so. Otherwise, I’ll be wandering forever.”

“Maybe you can wander yourself back here every fall,” I say with a shy smile I hope is slightly flirty.

“Maybe I can.”

We finish our bagels, and then he takes his guitar out and plays every song I request. I laugh and try to pick songs I think he won’t know or can’t play, but he plays every one, even a childhood favorite—the theme song from a cartoon. Then he switches it up and asks me to guess the band and title of a piece of a melody he plays, and I fail miserably.

“C’mon. Don’t you listen to music at all?” he asks, laughing.

“I do, but I never know what band I’m listening to.”

He shakes his head as he puts his guitar back in the case. “In your defense, those were songs that never got a lot of air play, but they’re some of my favorites.”

I hope he’s not disappointed in my lack of song knowledge. I’m sure the beautiful singer of that band he played with knows every title to every song and I wonder if that’s a trait he’s interested in. Music seems to be his life, so it wouldn’t surprise me.

By now the sun is starting to set, the sky turning a blazing orange and pink, but I don’t want to go home yet.

“Do you want to go for a drive?” I suggest.

There’s no hesitation. He just nods yes, and I hope that means he’s enjoying our time together as much as I am. He grabs his things, and we head toward my car. That’s when I truly understand he doesn’t have anything other than his guitar, his duffel bag and all it contains, and his dog. Naively, I had thought he had more belongings stashed away somewhere.

“Why don’t you drive?” I offer when we reach my car. “I’m kind of a crappy driver.”

He catches the keys I toss to him. “You don’t mind?” He raises his eyebrow at me.

“No. I’d rather you drove.” Not just because I’m sure he’s a better driver than I am, but also because having a guy drive feels more date-like to me. That feeling amplifies when he opens the passenger-side door, waits for me to climb in, then closes it behind me.

“Where to?” he asks after he’s run around the front of the car and climbed behind the wheel. I laugh as he moves the seat back to give his long legs room.

“Anywhere.”

He smiles as he adjusts the rearview mirror. “Anywhere is my favorite place.”

Anywhere turns out to be a random drive around town, past the street I live on without him even knowing it, and to a drive-in burger place. This time I let him pay without making a move for my wallet. We sit in the parking lot, eating burgers and fries and drinking thick vanilla malts. We take turns feeding Acorn a plain burger that the guy at the window was nice enough to make for us without the usual slathering of condiments and pickles.

“Do you need to be anywhere?” he asks as he pulls the car out of the parking lot.

“Nope. Nowhere.”

It’s odd having nowhere to go to be together. When Josh and I dated, we mostly hung out in his parents’ finished basement or in his bedroom if they weren’t home. He’d make us popcorn, and we’d watch the movies we’d rented, always laughing about how we wouldn’t bring them back a week late this time. But they were always late and not rewound to the beginning, and we’d have to pay extra in fees. That was the extent of our worries as a young couple.

Evan drives as if he knows his way around very well, and I don’t question it. Maybe he’s walked every inch of this town, or maybe he’s just so good at wandering aimlessly he can make it look natural. I don’t care where we’re going. My hand is in his, and he’s singing along with the radio, turning to sing to me when there’s a lyric about love or wanting someone, and it makes my heart almost beat out of my chest. He looks happy, free, and incredibly hot with the open window blowing his hair. For the first time, I wish I had a sports car because he would look so damn good driving a fast muscle car with his tattooed arm hanging out the window.