“He died in a car accident when I was seventeen. Some jackass on a cellphone crossed the middle lane.”
“I’m sorry,” Dane says.
I shrug. “It is what it is. Anyway, I think I’ve had about all I can handle for now. What do you like?”
“You mean music?” he asks.
“No,” I mock, “what do you like in general? For instance, bees: natural wonder or an abomination that the bible forgot to denounce?”
He laughs.
“I usually just listen to whatever’s on top forty.”
I gag.
“What?” he asks. “Those songs are on the top forty because that’s what most of the people in the country listen to. Are you saying everyone’s wrong?”
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Top forty is the same crap that’s been rehashed and rehashed since the seventies. The only difference is that most of the quote unquote artists on the top forty now don’t play their own instruments or enter a studio without making sure the auto tune is cranked up to eleven.”
“I like it,” he says.
“You know what’s happening here?” I ask.
“What?”
“We’re sitting here and out of nowhere, you’ve become the scared little girl. That’s what’s happening.”
He laughs. “What? Just because I don’t like music with someone grunting over the top of it I’m a scared little girl?”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Next, you’re going to tell me that fights during a hockey game distract from the integrity of the sport.”
He mumbles something and I turn the radio down.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I don’t like hockey,” he says.
“Oh my god,” I gasp. “We’re in a relationship and I’m the man.”
“Whatever,” he says with a chortle.
“So, where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
“You do know where we’re going, right? I mean, you’re not going to pull over and ask some old lady for directions like a girl, are you?”
All in all, he takes the teasing in stride.
That said, as we leave the city behind, I really am starting to wonder exactly where we’re headed.
“I have a confession to make,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s that?”
“I, uh,” I stammer.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know where you’re from,” I tell him. “Where did you grow up?”
“No thanks,” he said.
“No thanks?” I ask. “Were the winters cold in No Thanks, or was it soothingly temperate?”
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Nuh uh,” I say. “Not only did you dodge my question, but you asked yours without a single ounce of shame for not knowing where your long-time roommate and new girlfriend came from. Try again.”
“Come on,” he says, “it’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I tell him. “You don’t get to choose where you grow up, why would you be emb—oh my god.”
“What?” he asks. He’s visibly nervous.
“There’s only one place I can think that you would actually make you embarrassed.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says.
“You’re from New Jersey, aren’t you?”
He scoffs. “New Jersey? Are you kidding me? You know how I feel about—okay, yeah, I’m from New Jersey.”
I couldn’t stop laughing if I tried.
“It’s not that big a deal,” he says. “Like you just said, you can’t choose where you’re from.”
“It’s not that,” I cackle. “I’m just trying to understand why you talk so much crap on the state you’re from? Is it supposed to be Manhattan camouflage or something?”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “When I first moved to the city, I made the mistake of telling a few people that I’m from Jersey—”
“You even call it Jersey!” I howl.
He waits very patiently for my mirth to die down before continuing.
“Yeah, that’s about the response I got. I don’t get why it matters so much, New Jersey’s not that bad,” he says. “Yeah, New York City is awesome, but so is Trenton.”
“You know I don’t care that you’re from New Jersey, right?” I ask. “I’m willingly moving there.”
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. I guess it’s just easier to talk shit on Jersey. But where are my manners?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Where are you from?”
“Oh, that’s really not important,” I tell him.
“Come on,” he prods, “you had a good laugh at the expense of my home state. It’s only fair to share in the misery.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not from any of the states.”
I can feel the car slow as he turns to look at me.
“Where are you from?”
I sigh.
“It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. Really, it’s not. I’ve just had about the same experience telling people where I’m from that you’ve had telling people you’re from Jersey.”
I think my renewed laughter is killing any sympathy I might receive.
“Go on,” he says.
“You see, the difference here is that I don’t talk crap about where I come from, I just don’t bring it up.”
“Oh, will you just tell me.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m from Waterloo.”
“Iowa?” he asks.
“Ontario.”
He’s unusually quiet.
“Canada?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s actually a really nice place to live.”
“People listen to death metal in Canada?”
And so the hilarity begins.
“People listen to all kinds of music in Canada,” I tell him.
“Wait, wait,” he says, trying to regain his composure. “Say ‘about.’”
“About.”
He’s disappointed and it’s lovely.
“I’m sorry, were you expecting something else?”
“I thought you were going to say a boat or a boot. I thought you people had a real problem with that word.”
“What do you mean, ‘you people?’” I ask, feigning offense.
He flips on his turn signal.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re in New Jersey,” he says defiantly.
“Yeah, I got that from the road signs. I mean, where are we going?”
He seems rather proud of himself. “We are going camping,” he announces.
“Camping?” I ask. “I really don’t think I’m prepared for that sort of thing.”
“Not to worry,” he says, “I have everything we’re going to need in the trunk.”
“You’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?” I ask.
“A few days, yeah,” he says.
I’m a little nervous, but it is quite the gesture.
We exit the freeway and drive for a little while, death metal still droning quietly in the background. Either Dane’s forgotten about it, or he’s just that into me.
Eventually, we pull into a campground in what’s called South Mountain Reservation. There are a few occupied spots, but all in all, it’s pretty quiet here.
After we get everything unpacked, one thing becomes painfully clear: he forgot to pack a tent.
He offers to run into the nearest town and pick one up, but it’s already getting late and I’m tired.
The air is warm enough, and we have plenty of bug spray, so we just unroll our sleeping bags and spend the night under the stars.
As tired as I am, I can’t keep my eyes closed. The sky is filled with more stars than I remember existing.
For all its simplicity, getting to know Dane a little better and lying under such a bright canopy, this is quite probably the best night of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eyes of the Morning
Leila
My peaceful sleep is shattered by the piercing cacophony of an alarm clock.
With my eyes still closed, I reach over to hit the snooze button before I realize I’m not in my bed.
Dane is already up, and he’s quick to silence the alarm.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I forgot to turn that off.”
I rub my eyes and look around.