one more troubled soul » petekey

Two

"There is your car and the open road,
the fabled lure of random adventure.
You stand at the verge,
and you could become anything."
- Dan Chaon

It took a while for the stranger to finally get situated.

Pete had to move everything out of the passenger's seat, store his backpacks and suitcases in the back of the truck, and convince the stranger that it was safe. After a few lengthy minutes of coaxing, the stranger dropped his sign, which had read HELP in big, black letters, and took his seat. Pete fished a blanket out of the back seat and handed it to him cautiously. He took it and wrapped it around his shoulders, mumbling a thank you. He was still shaking, and he pulled his knees to his chest, his boots smearing mud on to his seat. Pete frowned.

He started driving again. The storm had completely ended now, and the clouds were already beginning to clear up and reveal a dark night sky. His stomach churned at the thought of leaving the stranger in the dark. He glanced over at him again (he couldn't get enough glances), watching as he took off his beanie and wrung out the water. It dripped into his lap. He tossed the soggy hat on the dashboard and snuggled more into the blanket, his teeth audibly chattering.

It had been a terrible idea. Pete's worst idea yet. What had he been thinking? As a kid, people always warned him not to get into car with strangers. But what about picking up a stranger? He assumed the same rules applied. Well, the one rule. Don't do it.

And yet he had done it. His heart overpowered his mind and made its own hasty decisions, as it usually did. Pete was the rope of their tug of war. He liked to sit down and think rationally, to understand completely. And yet he was taking a road trip across America because he wanted it with his heart. He always had, since he was a pimply pre-teen. While the other boys were waking up from their wet dreams of middle school's hottest cheerleaders, Pete was lost in a deep sleep with images of unfamiliar towns and people. His case of wanderlust was utterly incurable, and his heart had always been right about what he wanted, so why wouldn't it be right about the stranger?

The silence between them was deafening. Pete was screaming in his head, asking loud questions and vocalizing prominent fears. They should be talking. They should be discovering things about each other and realizing that this had been the right decision. Pete had spent his life romanticizing these sort of things; getting lost, finding each other. And now that he had a chance to make his own cheesy fantasies real, he was scared. They were both scared.

"I'm Pete."

It seemed to be the right thing to say. A simple introduction, a crack in the brick wall of mystery. He was another step closer to not being a stranger. It was a nightmare. It was a dream. It was both. It was maybe. Pete had no idea what he wanted anymore. He didn't want his passenger to just be another piece of luggage, to be just a space taker. But he definitely didn't want him to be a real person, with a name and a life and a heart with the ability to like Pete. Pete didn't want a friend, he didn't even want a fake one.

"What's your name?" Pete pressed on, crumbling his own walls. He kept reminding himself to stop, because he didn't need this detour. He never wanted this story to begin with. But curiosity killed the cat.

The stranger still was not replying. He wasn't even looking at Pete. He was looking outside his window with his chattery teeth, and his hair was starting to dry in a fluffy way. "Am I going to have to guess?" Pete asked, teasingly. And still he received silence. "Matthew?"

The stranger looked at him quickly, furrowing his dark eyebrows. He shook his head and then looked back out the window, letting out a sigh that fogged up the window. He pushed his forehead against it, and Pete pursed his lips. "Uh, Mark? John?" Every name was wrong, and he kept shaking his head.