19
‘This is just a good day. And for it to be a good, uncomplicated day, you’d better cover up that mop, because your beautiful hair could very well be the death of me.'
I bite my lip.
‘Rule number four: you have to do what I say.'
I put on the stupid beanie.
And she drives. I don’t know where we’re going and don’t ask. We wind through streets, passing the neighbour’s black cat, and a wooden letterbox someone on their Ls ran into. She drives until we’ve picked up speed and we’re out on a highway.
Tayla settles into a contemplative quiet, resting her hands on the wheel and looking ahead as though studying maps only she can see. I’m not sure how it happens, but I relax. I turn off my phone, stop checking the speedometer, and let the rest of the world not exist. I don’t think about waking up at three in the morning, or the invisible hand that so often squeezes my heart. I don’t think about how this is the first time in months I’ve traveled without a clear purpose – because I stopped doing anything but carrying out the tasks I wrote down each day in my calendar.
I stop thinking about the feather-strands of hair brushing her neck, and imagining touching her skin.
I stop thinking.
She reaches over, opens the glove-box, and hands me two CDs. ‘You pick.’
Both are blank, so I shove one in the player at random and let it play. Maybe Tayla was feeling suicidal when she made this CD. It’s a soundtrack to misery. If I had to place the songs in a movie, the protagonist would be attending his girlfriend’s funeral after his parents divorced and his dog ran away.
‘God, Tayla... not exactly a pick-me-up.’
‘You like it?’
‘No, it’s awful,’ I say, and she smiles.
‘I like how honest you are. I always liked that about you.’
‘You like this stuff?
’ ‘I do. I think these are feeling and healing songs. And I think sometimes the best thing, or only thing to do is to drive.’