Good morning. I tried to fuel up the car while you were asleep. I watched you driving and followed the procedures you use, with the exception of waving my middle finger at other drivers who follow too closely. Overall, I consider my first modern driving experience to be a success. Putting gas in the car was another story. Please tell Miss Scanlon that I’ll pay for the repairs.
“No, no, no!” I gasped, running to the motel window. The car was parked right outside our room, half in and half out of the parking space. It seemed that Collin didn’t know how to open the hatch for the gas tank. So he’d simply stuck his fingers into the groove and forced the door open with his vampire strength. Three finger-depth dents now marked the side panel, and the hatch door hung by the tiniest shred of a hinge.
I made a strange noise somewhere between a squawk and a sob. “Shiiiit!” I shouted, clapping my hand over my mouth. A hysterical giggle burst up from my chest, bubbling up through my mouth. And suddenly, I just didn’t care whether I woke up the rap-loving bachelors upstairs.
“He was trying to do something nice,” I told myself, squinching my eyes shut and clenching my teeth. “He was trying to help. Don’t freak out. It’s not like a broken gas door is that much worse than the new hood ornaments.” Groaning, I returned to reading the note.
Also, you will need to put gas in the car, as I’d forgotten that I did not have a wallet when I arrived at the station.
I snorted. “Of course.”
I will see you in Omaha tonight.
“Well, that was a very pleasant note, completely lacking in biting sarcasm,” I murmured. “Oh, wait, here we go.”
P.S. If I thought you made interesting statements while awake, imagine my astonishment at your candor while you are asleep. I didn’t know some of those acts were anatomically possible. I pledge to spend more time on the Internet, so I can catch up.
What did I say? What did I—Oh, Lord, did I moan? I seemed to recall that there was a lot of moaning … And giggling.
“Fuck a duck,” I groaned.
I drove like a bat out of hell for most of the morning, keeping the speedometer in that “ten mile over the limit” cushion that cops tended to overlook.
I found myself worrying about whether Collin was comfortable in his little cubby. It made me sad to think of him in his crisp suit, lying in a sort of coffin with his hands folded over his chest. Then again, as far as I knew, vampires slept in the fetal position, sucking their thumbs. Did the bumps of the road disturb him? Was he too hot, too cold? Did vampires feel these things in their “sleep”? Did he have a pillow? Did vampires need pillows? Ultimately, I decided there wasn’t much I could do, since opening the cubby to check on him would expose him to sunlight and kill him.
I used my time, navigating the rolling fields of Nebraska, to hash and rehash the events of the previous evening. What exactly was going on between Collin and me? Twenty-four hours before, I’d seriously considered lighting him on fire and blaming a faulty cigarette lighter. And somehow I thought it would be a good idea to roll around with him on a filthy motel carpet like a recently deflowered teenager on prom night?
I had a healthy sexual appetite, but nothing prepared me for the visceral responses that Collin drew from me. What did it say about me that I could get angry with Jason for telling Lisa that he loved her, but I could kiss Collin?
Collin was funny, without meaning to be. He was smart enough to be annoyed by my chaos and mess, but he also recognized that there was entertainment value in it. He listened to me, really listened, not just as a next step toward getting into my pants. He honestly wanted to understand what was going on in my head … if only I understood what was going on in my head. He knew what it was like, coming from a family that didn’t quite know what to do with you. And he made me laugh.
Last but not least, there was the fact that he was gorgeous in a tortured Byronic, Edward Rochester-meets-Lucius-Malfoy sort of way. He made me want to climb him like a proper British tree, for no other reason than that wrinkling his clothes would annoy him severely and, I hoped, provoke him into spanking me. He made me dizzy. He made my ears ring.
Wait, no. That was my phone.
Henry Rollins was singing, his ode to liars echoing in the cabin of the car. Jason was calling me again. It was time for me to talk to him. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost a week. It wasn’t mature or fair to shut him out like this. I hadn’t asked for complete radio silence while I was on the road, just some space. I could spare a few minutes to let him know that I was safe.
And yes, maybe that was “I committed frottage with a vampire” guilt talking.
I sighed and pressed the speakerphone function, remembering Collin’s rule about talking on the phone while driving. But even as I reached for the phone, I found myself praying that it was just another ass-dial.
“Hello?”
“Hey, you!” Jason exclaimed, as if he were speaking to me from across a war zone and not the Heartland. “Oh, Miranda, honey, it’s so good to hear your voice. I know you said you needed space, but not hearing from you has been driving me nuts.”
“I’m fine, Jason, really. I just need time to think.” And you and your ass calling me a half-dozen times a day isn’t helping my frame of mind, I added silently.
“I’m trying to give it to you, really. But it’s hard. I miss you,” he said. “I miss talking to you every day. No one makes me laugh like you do. No one’s made inappropriate jokes about professional baseball or network newscasters around me in weeks. I’ve been bored out of my skull.”
This probably was the point when I was supposed to say I missed him, too. But I found that the sound of his voice just sucked all of the wind out of my sails. Why couldn’t he listen to me when I said I needed space? Why couldn’t he back off? What was with this constant calling? He didn’t phone me this much when we were together.
Under normal circumstances, I would prattle through the day’s events, ask him questions about wedding plans, try to trick him into revealing what he planned for our date that evening. But today I was just sitting there, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted so I could get off the phone. He was the one who wanted to talk to me so bad, so why couldn’t he come up with conversation?
In Half-Moon Hollow, Jason cleared his throat. “Are you having fun?”
My lips quirked into a smile. I was, actually. Even with all of the disasters that befell us, I was having a pretty good time. But if I told Jason that, he would pout. I wasn’t supposed to be having fun. I was supposed to be using this time for a sensible relationship inventory.
Also, the idea of his having to come up with a whole conversation on his own was sort of amusing, so I kept it short and sweet. “No.”