Stars
Leila
The move is in three days.
I got the apartment I wanted and it’s ready for me to move in and make it my own.
Dane hasn’t said it yet, but I know he’s not going with me.
Rather than spend this last parcel of time together feeling hurt or awkward, though, I’ve decided to make the most out of what time we have left.
There is so much that we haven’t experienced together. We’ve never been on a real date.
I’ve come to realize that we simply don’t have enough to build a solid relationship. But hey, we may as well enjoy it while it lasts.
It’s just after dark. If there are any stars in the sky, the city lights have swallowed them whole. The night is cool, but not cold. Traffic crowds the streets below, but I got used to that constant rush of combustion a long time ago.
I’m sitting on the roof, staring up at the sky, trying my hardest to find any stars at all. After a few false alarms (airplanes,) I finally spot one standing there all alone, its light just barely piercing the city’s brightness.
Isn’t that the way it goes?
My phone rings and I answer it, my eyes still intent on the sky.
“Hello?”
“Come downstairs.”
It’s Dane.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just come downstairs,” he says. “I’ve got a car waiting for you.”
“I’m not really dressed to go out,” I tell him, but he just chuckles.
“Don’t worry about that. It’s just going to be you and me.”
“All right.”
I’ve been waiting for a moment like this, but I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is excitement or anxiety. It’s probably a little bit of both.
I make my way downstairs, but not before stopping by the apartment to check my hair and makeup. For someone who’s given up on an actual love life, I look pretty darn good.
“Oh stop it,” I tell myself aloud. “Quit being a baby and just enjoy the night.”
When I come out of the building, I look for Dane, but don’t see him. There are cars parked out front, as always, but they’re all empty.
My phone rings again.
“Hello?”
“I’m just down the block,” Dane says. “Look to your right. Do you see me?”
It takes a few seconds, but I finally spot him about a hundred yards down the way, waving his hands.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I got ya.”
I hang up the phone and start walking.
When I come close enough to see the car, I’m a little disappointed. He said he had a car waiting for me. I had just assumed that meant he’d gone all out and gotten a town car or something with a driver.
It’s not the car itself that bothers me, it’s the fact that we won’t be able to focus on each other during the drive, not completely.
After everything that’s gone right over the past few weeks, I know how ungrateful I’m being right now. That said, the foreknowledge of this relationship’s end is more than enough to spoil just about anything.
I really had high hopes for me and Dane.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he says as I approach.
“Hey yourself,” I answer, and give him a peck on the lips. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
“Well,” he says, “I wanted to do something special for you, but I was having the hardest time figuring out exactly what.”
“And?” I ask, unable to hold back a smile any longer.
“I came up with absolutely nothing,” he says with a laugh. “So, I figured, why not rent a car? That way we can let the evening take us where it will.”
“All right,” I say skeptically. “You do know how to drive, don’t you?”
“Of course I know how to drive,” he says, opening the passenger’s door. “Just fucking get in the car, will you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I smile.
A minute later and we’re on the road; well, kind of. I don’t know if there’s a game or something, but traffic seems to be extra heavy tonight.
Eventually, we transcend major gridlock and arrive in minor gridlock.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks.
“I like a little bit of everything,” I tell him.
“Oh, bullshit,” he says. “Everyone says that, but it’s never true.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” I ask, poking him in the ribs.
“No,” he says, “but I am saying you’re full of shit.”
“Pick a station,” he says. “From what I understand, this vehicle is fully equipped with satellite radio, and if you can figure out how to work it, we can listen to whatever you want.”
“I have a feeling you’re going to regret that,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “so do I, but I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.”
I’ve never used satellite radio, but it’s not rocket science. I roll through the stations until I land on a death metal song.
I smile and turn up the volume.
“You’re kidding, right?” he asks.
“What?” I tease. “I can’t hear you. I’m too busy rocking out.”
He laughs. “If you can deal with it, I can deal with it,” he says.
He thinks I’m joking.
That misapprehension starts to fade as we go into the second and then third song.
“Do you actually like this stuff?” he asks.
“My brother liked it,” I tell him. “Growing up, he’d always have this stuff blasting from his room. It’s how he and I really became close.”
“I didn’t know you have a brother,” Dane says.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Whenever one of his favorite bands would come to the state, I was the only 12-year-old girl in the crowd. I never really loved it the way he did, but it helps me feel close to him again.”
“Where does he live?” Dane asks.
“He doesn’t,” I answer.
Maybe that was a bit blunt.
“He died in a car accident when I was 17. Some jackass on a cell phone 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 40.”
I gag.
“What?” he asks. “Those songs are on the top 40 because that’s what most of the people in the country listen to. Are you saying everyone’s wrong?”
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Top 40 is the same crap that’s been rehashed and rehashed since the 70s. The only difference is that most of the quote unquote artists on the top 40 now don’t play their own instruments or enter a studio without making sure the autotune is cranked up to 11.”
“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 longtime 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.