Wicked Restless

He pulls his handle the same way, and slides into his seat, which is perhaps more torn than my side, and the fact that it was more important to him that I was comfortable isn’t lost on me. I reach my hand forward and run it along the dashboard, which is slick and black and shiny. I bet Andrew makes the rest of the car just as nice one day.

“It’s pretty cool,” I say, tilting my head to the side just in time to see him exhale and smile proudly.

“Thanks,” he grins, turning his focus to his key and the ignition. The engine roars and the entire car rumbles. I look at his face again, and see a flash of thrill ignite his eyes.

“Well it sounds like everything’s working,” I say, not really knowing if the car sounds right at all. I don’t know anything about cars, other than where to put the pump for gas. But I know this car sounds fast and loud, and I get a feeling Andrew likes that.

“Yeah, it’s working,” he chuckles before punching the gas once and squealing the tires while he backs out, kicking ten pounds of gravel up into the air behind us. I grab both sides of my bucket seat on instinct and hear my mother’s warning to be careful echo in my ears.

“So…driving lessons from your brothers too I’m guessing?” I ask, my hand somehow now clutched to my chest, crinkling the fabric of my shirt. I don’t even remember moving it.

“Sorry…I get carried away,” he says, wincing.

“No…it’s okay. You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it,” I say. He watches me for a few extra seconds, I think to judge whether or not I’m lying. Eventually, his eyes begin to relax, and he shifts the gear, pulling out of the lot slowly.

“Okay, well how about I take it slow and the next time I want to speed things up I give you a sign,” he smirks. My body flushes, because I get the sense he might be talking about other things.

“Okay,” I whisper, forcing my hands to remain still on my legs, not to pick at one another and give away how tense he makes me.

“But to answer your question,” he says, pulling my attention to him again. He’s looking at the roadway, so I feel safe to stare at him while he talks. “My brothers would never teach me how to drive. Owen wouldn’t let me touch his truck. I had to get his friends to teach me. And his best friend was all about drag racing, so when Owen left us alone, he sort of let me go crazy.”

“How nice of him,” I say, not masking my sarcasm.

Andrew glances at me with a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess it wasn’t safe or whatever, but…I don’t know…life is what it is, and you can only control like…this much of it,” he says, holding his thumb and index finger out toward me measuring less than an inch. “Sometimes I just want to feel a little more of everything, you know?”

He glances at me again, and I can’t seem to smile back at him, as much as I want to. I can’t because I know exactly what he means. I want to feel more, but I’m on pause—not allowed to really feel anything until I’m cleared and told it’s okay to do so.

I’m feeling things now. And I intend on keeping all of that secret.

“Maybe that sounds crazy. God, you probably think I’m nuts,” he says as he runs his hand over his face and through the blowing wild strands of his hair.

“You’re not nuts,” I say, and notice his jaw twitch at my response, his lips tight in a straight line. He clears his throat and leans to the side to roll up his window. We stop at a light in the center of town, and the loud clicking of the blinker fills the dead air, and eventually Andrew and I both laugh.

“Goddamn that’s loud, right?” he says, leaning toward me and looking at the gear shaft as if somehow he can control the sound from there. He glances back up, now inches closer to me, and his breath falters again. “So maybe that goes on the list of things to fix.”

“No, don’t,” I smile. He flinches and squints, sitting back comfortably as he turns and pulls into a diner parking lot. “If you fix it, then it won’t make that sound anymore, and now it’s sort of our thing. We’ll always be able to laugh at the loud blinker noise.”

His bottom lip sucked into his mouth, he nods as he pulls into a spot and shifts into park, tapping both hands along the black rubber of the steering wheel.

“Well then that’s settled,” he says, grinning as he pulls the keys from the ignition. “The clicking noise stays.”

I nod in agreement, then reach to my door handle.

“Hang on, wait for me,” Andrew says, springing from his seat and jogging around the front of the car. He’s wearing the same gray jeans and black shirt he wore Friday night, and I’m glad. He looks nice like this. With a jerk of the handle, he has my door open, and I step out and make a silent wish to feel his hand along my back, the way a guy walks a girl from the car when they go on a date in the movies. I get to the restaurant door without ever feeling it, though.