Stella and the Boxer

Chapter 16

Charlie is waiting for me when I walk through the large, glass doors of the office. He leans against the side of his white, vintage mustang and smirks at me, turning to open the passenger door.

“How was it?” He asks, as I thank him for being chivalrous and climb in.

“It went well, I think I’ll really like it.”

Charlie closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side. I look down to the center console and notice two large cups with lids and red straws.

“I got you a cherry coke for the road,” He says, smiling and gesturing towards the one that is mine as he takes his seat behind the wheel.
“Thanks,” I say, “You’re sweet.”

I hope Charlie at least lets me buy him dinner or something on this trip. He has already insisted that I not pay for gas or pitch in on the hotel room, and now he is treating me to free beverages.     

Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m On Fire,” is the first song to play through the stereo of Charlie’s car as we begin our road trip. It is already dark, but Charlie and I agree to keep the windows down, at least until the air gets too cold.

I sip my cherry coke while the wind blows my long curls relentlessly about my face. For a second, I wish that I’d worn a hair band on my wrist, but then I correct myself, because it actually feels so nice.

After a few more Springsteen songs, we move onto Tom Petty.

“Wildflowers,” begins to play and Charlie reaches down to change it.

“You don’t like this one?” I ask.

He moves his arm from the dial, placing his elbow back on the center console.

“It’s not my favorite, but I’ll listen to it if you like it.”

“It’s my favorite Tom Petty song,” I explain, “I think it’s one of the most romantic songs ever written.”

He doesn’t shift his eyes from the road, but he tilts his head slightly, with an expression both amused and questioning.

“If you listen to the lyrics, it’s about telling someone you love that they deserve to be free. Maybe it’s just because the only boyfriend I’ve ever had was suffocating and possessive, but I appreciate the message,” I chuckle and Charlie joins, but only for a second before he runs a hand through the front of his perfectly messy hair and glances out of the driver side window.

“You can change it though, if you want,” I say quietly, leaning back further in my seat and typing on my phone to my parents.  

I see him reach towards the stereo out of the corner of my eye, only to turn the volume up and then lay his warm hand on my knee. I smile to myself, still looking down at my phone. Soon, I take his hand in mine, lacing our fingers. We stay like that, quietly together, for sometime.

We eventually decide to roll up our windows. Charlie decides, actually, when he somehow notices me shiver for a split-second. He asks if I need warmer clothes from his trunk, but I insist that I’m fine.

I ask Charlie what sort of current music he likes, since we’ve only ever really listened to old, albeit good music together. He plays some of his present favorites for me. There are a few artists that I hadn’t yet heard of, and I like them all very much. Both of us listen to an eclectic mix, but we somehow have very similar taste in music both old and current.

His hand now rests in my lap. He is wearing a black, lightweight sweater and the sleeves are rolled to his elbows. My fingertips trace the blank ink on his arm, like they have so many times before, and they look comically small against the size of his smooth forearm.