Eat For Two

Moonshine

Chapter 12: Moonshine

            I think the passenger door sticking is an omen, forewarning me of the impending car ride. Of the awaited and unavoidable conversation Cameron is desperate to have. Because, seriously, he of all people knows I packed several toothbrushes. He saw my stockpile of the dental hygienic products sitting in the trunk of my Jeep, and he even had the gall to comment.

Sighing, an exasperated Cameron reaches over from his seat behind the wheel to grasp the handle of my door and shove it open hard, hard enough that the force jostles me backward a step. Glowering, I step into my truck, which he so graciously decided he could drive. Just as I had snatched my keys from the hook, he had stepped toward me, grabbed my wrist, and wrenched the keys from my fingers, without so much as a glance at my incredulous expression.  I do not appreciate people driving my baby. She’s worth three summers of slaving at two different restaurants and one farm. I didn’t pick bushels of vegetables and fruits that I couldn’t even eat, in humid ninety-degree weather nonetheless, to just give over my keys to whoever decides it is their right to drive my car. Yeah. And this is the second time he has driven my car.

Though there is definitely something attractive about a guy who can drive stick as fluidly as if it took him no thought. Just saying.

“I know that you know that I have enough spare toothbrushes to last me through a nuclear holocaust, and that I was going to give you one of those said toothbrushes,” I pause, cautiously preparing my question in my leeriness. “So where are we really going?”

He pops his knuckles, distractedly stretching out his fingers, one by one, once again reminding my of his curiously calloused hands, before he shifts his gaze from the road to my face.

“We,” Cameron begins, “are going to the pier.”

“Oh, you have one of those here?” I can tell by his immediate smirk and slight chuckle, that I said something very stupid. But it at least breaks the viscous tension swirling in the air between us. Like a taut string snipped, or a black humidity swept away with a cool breeze.

Not even gracing me with a reply, he subtly shakes his head. For the remainder of the drive, I decide to ignore him. Focusing my gaze to the outside world flying past; I see lanterns, LED signs, and traffic lights blur into streams of fluorescent color. Shadows dance by, and clips of sound make there way into my open window. The heavy bass of a passing car. Raucous laughter pressing against the windows of a bar. The fluid, gravelly, crackle of a skateboard weaving its way down the sidewalk. Conversations of the gaggles of teenagers wandering about, blend into multi-tone hum. Gently, I rest my head upon the door, closing my eyes to the wind, which tugs and pulls, beckoning the tendrils of my hair out the window. My hair joins the wind in intimate dance. Everything around me is in motion, fast-paced, dizzying, motion. Peaking my lids open, I look to the stars. Bright and beautiful, they spatter across the inky blackness: still.

My head bounces up, smacking hard into the doorframe, as I simultaneously hear the front wheels crunch over a curb and into gravel, and Cameron mumble out a warning too late.

“Owww.” I moan, smoothing my temple with my palm.

“I did warn you.”

“Yeah,” I huff, indignantly crossing my arms across my chest and slipping down in my seat, “a bit too late, you think?”

“Whatever, get out of the car,” Cameron looks down at me in amusement, “we’re here.”

Rolling my eyes, I jiggle the door handle, throw my shoulder against it to thwart it stickiness, and tumble out of the car into a slight crouch in the grit. We are parked halfway on the shoulder of the road and halfway onto the pier. All in all, it just screams parking ticket to me. Rounding the car, I make my way over to Cameron’s side, praying this isn’t the pier he was talking about. First, there are no railings. Second, the pier is only about five feet across and made out of like two-inch planks of wood. Third, that said wood looks to be dry rotting and is missing in some places. What concerns me most, though, is the end is hidden by the volumes of mist curling from the surface of the glassy waters.