Page 12 of Shut Up and Drive

“I’d like tonothave to, but sharing what’s between the lines is completely up to you,” she says with a shrug. “Looks like you had some amazing experiences out there; so much so that I wondered sometimes if you wouldevercome back home.” She pauses while her words settle between us. “Whydidyou come home, anyway?”

Because I knew I was running out of time to win you back.

“I ran out of money,” I lie, and fake a laugh to punctuate it.

Her eyes fall. “Oh,” is all she mutters, and that one small syllable pummels me right in the chest.

I sit in silence as I let the lie fester between us. I want to take it back. To pull it from her eardrums and toss it out the window as we drive. I ache to confess that I never stopped loving her; to be bold and tell her that every day away from her was agony on the inside, even if it looked like paradise on the outside. But I don’t. Apparently today is not the day I choose bravery—or honesty, for that matter. I hate myself for it.

A familiar shame settles deep in my gut, and even though she thinks I’m shallow and materialistic, I don’t correct it.

Center City Philadelphiais crazier than I remembered. The streets are lined with cars, bustling with people, and the parking is almost nonexistent.

“Thane…” Sera says after twenty minutes of driving around, “we’re getting further behind schedule.”

“I know, I know. I’m looking. There’s gotta be a spot somewhere,” I reply, my eyes scanning out the windshield.

“This is the fourth time we’ve circled Pat’s. Just jump out and order, and I’ll circle the block a few more times while they make our cheesesteaks.”

“Great idea,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

She pulls over and double-parks in front of Pat’s. I climb out of the car, lean into the window, and rattle off a series of questions.

“Okay, how do you want yours? Provolone, Whiz, wit, witout… or would you rather have American?” I ask.

Sera stares at me blankly. “You know, I’ve never understood that whole ordering language. Can you speak New Yorker to me, please?”

I fight a smile. “Do you want Cheese Whiz, Provolone, or American cheese?”

“I feel almost gross saying this, but I gotta go with Cheese Whiz,” she replies, wrinkling her cute little nose.

“With grilled onions, or without?”

“Without. And you’d better order yours that way too, because I’m not sharing this Micro Machine with you and your onion breath.”

“So demanding,” I say, grinning.

She shakes her head and flashes the smile that I traveled thousands of miles to forget, but never could. “It’s the leastyou could do for making us lose all this travel time,” she teases.

I freeze the moment, memorizing the way her deep brown eyes sparkle in the sunlight coming through the sunroof. I watch all the dreams I had hoped to have with her pass in front of my eyes like a sped-up movie montage. It’s a nice reminder of how things used to be, but our lives are far different than we had planned. I haven’t seen her in years, and although I’d like to go back to the way we were, I have succumbed to the realization that that probably won’t happen.

Someone a few car lengths behind her starts yelling and honking their horn at her for blocking the road.

She puts the car in drive. “That’s my cue! See you on the flip side! Bring me another Cherry Pepsi, please!” she yells out the passenger window as she drives off.

The line moves quickly, thanks to Pat’s cash-only, short-and-to-the-point way of ordering. The first time I visited Philadelphia, I stood on the sidewalk, frozen like an idiot, while everyone around me moaned and complained loudly because I took too long to order. The pressure of that moment alone was enough to make me want to quit and walk away. But when I watched someone bite into a perfectly sliced steak sandwich dripping with cheese, I found the courage down in my stomach to try again. I’ve done it enough times now that I could order in my sleep, and probably did when I lived too far away.

I walk up to the window and rattle off my order like a pro, then hand my cash to the worker. I sidestep to the next window and wait while they make our food, my mouth watering with anticipation.

Just as I reach for the warm, gooey cheesesteaks, a loud commotion breaks out behind me.

“I told you, this wasmyseat!” one angry man yells at another sitting at a red table outside the restaurant.

“I don’t see your name on it!” the sitting man shouts back. “Now get lost!”

I’m not sure who started what after that, but before I can blink, fists, cheese, bread, and meat are flying all over the outdoor dining area. People dodge out of the way as the brawl becomes less about a seat and more about winning the fight. Standing Guy picks Sitting Guy up by his collar and tosses him aside, spilling soda on the woman behind him. Sitting Guy comes back swinging, but misses Standing Guy and punches a pole. A loud “clang!” echoes around us, and everyone gasps in unison. Sitting Guy turns bright red, shakes the pain from his hand, and lunges at Standing Guy—just as Sera pulls up alongside the curb.

I watch in slow motion as the two cheese-covered men fly through the air and land right on top of our rental car, making a shoulder-sized spiderweb crack in the windshield. Sera’s eyes grow as big as golf balls, and her face distorts from surprise to fear. Though I can’t hear the scream coming out of her over the cussing and fighting, I know she would’ve made my ears ring had I been in the passenger seat.