subject line: I like the way he's everything I ever wanted.

 

atlanta, georgia 

I almost canceled. I almost called it off. I even typed out the words. I almost pressed ‘send’.
But I didn’t.

So, he came. And I opened my door— figuratively and literally— and I let him in.

I swear to you that I-75 South has never felt so magical. Atlanta has never stolen my breath the way it did walking hand-in-hand with him. Things like rush hour traffic and wrong turns and missed exits become bearable when we’re together.

I close my eyes and I see him looking at me; I feel his truck unintentionally drift into another lane. “I’m a little distracted,” he said. What a privilege to be that messy haired, laughing distraction on the passenger side.


Maybe all it takes to feel invincible is a red Tacoma and a callused hand. Maybe all it takes to be free is the windows down at 70 miles per hour with a green eyed boy in the driver’s seat.

I kept looking at the clock to the right of his steering wheel: 10:06. 11:00 curfew.

I just didn’t want it to end. I think that may be my favorite memory: looking over and seeing him singing love songs to me, one hand on the steering wheel, as I half smiled and half sang along. I can only think of one word to describe it: contentment.

We got lost one more time on the way home— he turned left instead of right. We were too bust laughing at each other to realize we’d gone down a dead end road. I enjoyed every mile we needlessly drove because it just gave us more time together.

His tires rolled in the driveway ten minutes before curfew. He walked me in.

Twenty-five minutes later, he drove away. I have his sweatshirt; he has my heart.

I don’t think we’ll ever give them back.