It was his idea to chase the band. Of course, it was. He had this way of making the most ridiculous, impossible plans feel like they were the only thing in the world that mattered. He pulled up in his old SUV, the engine rattling like it might die at any moment, and said, “Get in. We’re going to San Francisco.”
No explanation, no plan. Just him, that goddamn grin, and a city that suddenly felt like destiny. And because it was him, I didn’t hesitate.
The rain started somewhere around Portland, relentless and angry, hammering against the windshield like it wanted to swallow us whole. My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as I squinted through the blur of headlights and endless black asphalt. I was exhausted, but there was no way I was pulling over. I never did.
He didn’t drive. Ever. Not even in his own car. At first, I thought it was laziness—another way to piss me off without lifting a finger. But the more I think about it, maybe it was something else. Maybe he liked letting me feel in control in the one place where I actually could be. Or maybe it was his way of reminding me that control, when it came to us, was just an illusion.
The storm didn’t faze him. He lounged in the passenger seat, his leg bouncing to some internal rhythm I couldn’t hear, his fingers drumming on his thigh like he had nothing better to do than make me insane.
“This is nothing,” he said, grinning as the SUV hydroplaned just enough to make my stomach flip.
I glared at him, but deep down, I couldn’t help but laugh. That was the thing about him—he could make chaos feel like an adventure. Even when I wanted to wring his neck, he made me feel alive.
The mountains came next. Twisting roads that felt more like a carnival ride than a highway. The rain turned the pavement into a slick death trap, but the adrenaline pumping through me was almost addictive. My heart pounded in my chest, my skin buzzing with a combination of fear and exhilaration.
He made it worse, of course. His hand crept up my thigh, his touch light enough to send a shiver through me but firm enough to remind me he was in control of more than I liked to admit.
“Eyes on the road,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.
“Hands off my leg,” I shot back, but we both knew I didn’t mean it.
That was the thing about him. He knew exactly how to push me—just far enough to get me burning without breaking. And I hated how much I loved it.
Somewhere between nowhere and everywhere, the tension between us snapped. It always did. The chemistry we had didn’t just simmer—it boiled over, spilling into every moment until there was nowhere left for it to go.
In that cramped, rain-soaked SUV, with the world outside reduced to darkness and storm, I lost myself in him. In the way his fingers dug into my skin, in the way his mouth claimed mine like it was his right.
I wasn’t proud of the things we did in that car. Not there, not then. But with him, it was impossible to stop.
By the time we hit the California border, the storm outside felt tame compared to the one brewing between us. We stopped at a rest area, maybe to cool off, maybe just to breathe. But the second the car door slammed, it started.
The fight.
We didn’t need a reason. We never did. One second, we were fine, and the next, we were tearing into each other like the world was ending. Maybe it was the pressure of being so close, of feeling so much. Or maybe we were just two young, reckless idiots who didn’t know how to handle something that big.
“You’re impossible,” I hissed, throwing my hands up in frustration.
“And you’re a control freak,” he snapped back, his voice rising to meet mine. “You think driving means you’re in charge of everything?”
“You LET me drive!” I yelled, my voice cracking with the force of my anger. “What does that even say about you?”
He stormed off, pacing in the rain like he could outrun the fire raging between us. I leaned against the car, arms crossed, pretending I didn’t care even though my chest ached with the effort.
When he finally turned back to me, rain dripping from his hair, his expression was a mix of anger and something else—something raw and unspoken.
“I can’t—” he started, his voice breaking.
I stared at him, my breath hitching. He couldn’t what? Love me? Leave me? Stop himself from pulling me closer even when we were falling apart?
He crossed the distance between us in three quick steps, grabbed my face, and kissed me like it was the only way to make it all stop. And it was. Because words never worked with us.
The rest of the drive was quiet, the kind of silence that hums with everything unsaid. He leaned back in his seat, watching me like he was daring me to look back. And I kept driving, hands gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
When we finally reached San Francisco, the rain had given way to a thick mist that clung to the hills like a secret. The band didn’t matter anymore—it never really did. It was just an excuse to run, to chase something we couldn’t name.
Looking back, I know we were too young, too stupid, too caught up in ourselves to understand what we had. But that doesn’t make it any less real. The highs and the lows, the laughter and the screaming, the passion and the pain—it was all real. Messy and imperfect, but real.
And maybe that’s why he’s still in the back of my mind, this unfinished story I can’t stop turning over. We aren’t who we’re supposed to be yet, but we’re going to be. We have to be. Because what we had doesn’t just disappear.
He’s not just a chapter in my story. He’s the whole fucking book.
Loved it