Waiting for You (8 page)

Dylan stayed on the
balcony as I took my shower. Once I finished, I dressed in a pair of jean
shorts and a Rolling Stones shirt my mother would never approve of me wearing
and pinned my wet hair up in a messy bun.

Look at me, wearing my
own clothes, flirting, hell, I even thought of asking Dylan for a cigarette to
complete my transformation. Smiling in the mirror, I finally felt like my own
person who’d cut the strings.

When I opened the door
to the bathroom Dylan was waiting on the bed, all his stuff was neatly next to
him. I laughed and he glared because he knew then that I was aware of the fact
that he was extremely methodical. Part of me wanted to reach over, toss his
clothes on the floor, and watch the panic rise.

“Don’t be long sugar.”
I said as he pushed past me to enter the bathroom.

He made it a point to
make sure his chest brushed mine as he slid past me. Shaking my head, I stared
at my feet and of course, he grinned.

“Nice shirt.” Tugging
at the hem, his knuckles brushed against my stomach. I felt the touch through
my entire body. It was like a tickle ran wild and gave me shivers.

Dylan enjoyed pushing
the boundaries and when I pushed back, he smirked and waited for me to weaken.
It was the same game he played with everyone else whether it is the police or
teachers; he had his own set of restless rules.

Unfortunately, for me,
I was playing it with him and if I were any weaker to his rebel ways, I’d be
standing at home plate waving him in. The thought of being with him was there before
I could stop it. Maybe it was because he was here with me that the temptation
was there but it was also because deep down, I knew that if anyone knew the
real me or even took the time to know me, it would have been him.
Unfortunately, as middle school and high school hierarchy usually dictates, we
lost touch.

Throughout Dylan’s
shower, I mulled over what situation between us was and what it was already
doing.

If we couldn’t stop
teasing each other, how was this trip going to work? But was it really a trip?
Did I want to go back eventually? Did he? Could we run forever?

Then I thought about me
and Dylan together, intimately. We shouldn’t be together, right? I hated that
my mind constantly went there imagining him. After Eric, I didn’t want to rush
into anything but maybe rushing into it would be what I needed.

A good part of my
concern was what this could do to Dylan. Even only being around Dylan a day, it
was apparent he had some emotional issues, and me, well I was just looking to
rebel, right?

If I wanted to rebel
what better way to rebel than to mess around with the town delinquent?

Don’t do that
Bailey.

I didn’t want to hurt
Dylan. Yes, he was a bad boy but he did have feelings and I wasn’t looking to
use him nor was I looking to get hurt myself. This could easily go both ways.

After Dylan’s hour-long
shower, he came out dressed and ready to go and smelling of aftershave and
cologne. I finished packing up my bag which consisted of me just tossing
everything in a vintage bag I made from a quilt my grandmother gave me and a
few pairs of jeans my mom never let me wear.

I noticed then that all
I had in that bag was a few pairs of shorts, tank tops, a few t-shirts I had
bought without my parent’s knowledge, and lotion. I didn’t bring any make-up
and took comfort that I at least managed to bring some
Love Spell
body
spray and deodorant.

Making our way down the
stairs because I refused to ride in that elevator again, we checked out and I
raided the stand next to the counter that had maps and various pamphlets on
vacation destinations.

When we got in the car,
Dylan noticed all the maps. “Did you rob the chambers of commerce?”

“No.” I pushed a few
toward him. “I just thought they’d be handy.”

Eyeing the maps, he
picked up the one for San Diego and then tossed it aside placing the keys in
the ignition. “Uh-huh,” he didn’t look impressed at all.

He probably thought I
was questioning his navigation skills.

Before we got back on
the highway, Dylan stopped at the gas station to fill up and check the oil. I
tried again to pay for gas but he declined.

Knowing my dad would
soon cancel my cards and account, I took the time to get as much money out of
my bank account. The clerk made me sign a form for the advance from my saving
account and I’ll admit my hand shook slightly thinking that this was my college
fund I was withdrawing. Any future I had was tied to this money and here I was
not thinking about that future any longer.

I ended up withdrawing
all of it thinking if my dad had any connections, which he does, the money
would be gone come Monday.

As I signed that paper,
another thing occurred to me. This feeling, the reason I left, had been
festering for a while. Eventually, it would have come to a head whether it was
at college or ten years later. Deep down, I wasn’t happy. I’m not sure when it
started, I couldn’t pin point a day but it was sometime after Homecoming this
last year. I also knew that throughout the year, the feeling, the gut wrenching
agony, got louder and I couldn’t ignore it as easily. After a while, like a
loud voice, it was all I heard.
Run. Get out.

So I did.

It was a feeling that
snuck up on me and sunk into my skin until one day I woke up and realized I
didn’t want the life I had. I was sure that I wasn’t the only one that had felt
like this before.

After the gas station,
we ate some breakfast at a small diner up the street. The waitress flirted with
Dylan so blatantly it actually pissed me off.

I was not experienced
in flirting but I understood when two people were sitting next to one another
this usually meant they were friends and you shouldn’t flirt with them until
you understood they weren’t together. I never gave her the impression I
wasn’t
with Dylan so naturally the teenage girl in me was upset.

Without thinking, I
moved to sit closer to him in hopes that this would deter
her
a
little but it didn’t, it only made Dylan look at me like I was some
harebrained lunatic. I probably was.

Once we got back on the
road, I started thinking about where this could go with us and where it
shouldn’t. Judging by the diner, I was obviously attracted to him. I stared at
him shamelessly this morning without regard and he knew it. If I had to guess,
I would say that he was attracted to me too but I wasn’t positive.

Watching the side of
the road, other than flat land, it offered nothing for my questions. I had my
legs pulled up to my chest contemplating what I wanted out of this.

I felt Dylan swerve the
steering wheel slightly. The rumble strips vibrated my seat and I looked over
at him.

He mumbled something I
couldn’t hear before shifting uncomfortably and looking to his left out the
window.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing.”
Diverting his eyes, he squinted a few times as if he was trying to adjust his
vision.

Glancing down, I
realized
why
he swerved.

My tank top was rather
low and while I was hugging my legs, it had created quite the push up result on
my boobs.

Classic.

Each city we passed through offered its
own appeal to me. I wondered how many people had
drove
this same path only to stop and make a life for them. I could see myself doing
the same thing.

It was incredibly hot
driving through northern California that afternoon. With a steady breeze, it
helped but the humidity was starting to get to me. Without thinking, I yanked
my tank top over my head and tossed it beside me. Not that great of idea
considering I only had my bra on but I was sweating and Dylan’s car had no air
conditioning. It was my only option.

Dylan looked over at me
and then averted his eyes back to the road. There was something about the way
he looked at me that made me feel drunk though I had nothing to drink.

Steading the steering
wheel with his knee, he pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it next to
him on the seat. It rested next to mine. All I could smell was his rich
intoxicating scent of lemon, lilac and oak again. I was seconds away from
whimpering when I took in his chiseled form. He looked like a male model, only
covered in tattoos.

For being eighteen,
Dylan had a nice body and then you add the tattoos covering his upper body,
this straight-laced mutineer was intrigued.

Dylan tipped his head
to the side, glancing over at me and I could feel his weighted gaze and low
voice. “You keep this shit up and we’ll be naked before we hit Sacramento.”

“So be it then.” I smiled
back at him. “I’m hot.”

“Yeah, you are,” he
mumbled looking to his left away from me.

Nothing was said for
about two miles when Dylan groaned, as he ran his right hand down his face,
before finding the steering wheel again. “You
gotta
put your fucking shirt back on.”

I kind of laughed but
was more excited that he couldn’t concentrate. “You put yours’ back on or get
air conditioning.”

Dylan gave me a look
that said not happening on both demands.

“Hey,” I said trying to
clarify myself, “you’re nearly naked too and I’m not really comfortable either.
In fact, it’s distracting.”

“Just put your shirt
on.”

“Put yours on.”

Neither one of us was
budging on it so we gave up and settled on ignoring each other.

With the occasional
glance at one another, we sat there, both defiantly stubborn, Dylan without his
shirt on and me without mine.

After we stopped at a
small roadside diner, Roger’s Frosty in Cottonwood, California, we started
talking about what we wanted out of this trip.

“I want you to put your
shirt back on,” Dylan had said to me and then followed that with, “what do you
want to do?”

I knew what he was
referring to and it had nothing to do with the shirt. He wanted to know why I came
with him and what I wanted out of this trip, if it was even a trip. My mind
still hadn’t settled on what this really was between us or where we were
heading.

What did I want? I
wanted him to keep his shirt off that’s for sure.

More than anything, I
wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel and appreciate a passion for something
that I loved. For most of my life, I felt like a puppet on strings and I wanted
that feeling gone. I had done what everyone else wanted me to do and now I
didn’t know how to act. Like a puppet cut from its strings, I didn’t know how
to be on my own but I knew I wanted to feel alive and in just these last two
days, Dylan had done that for me. There was something about him, maybe his
personality; that told me he had passion for something and a magic that I
couldn’t place. In turn, like a sparkling diamond, I was captivated by him.

If you had asked me at
three what I wanted to be, I would have said baseball player. I still love
sports, especially baseball. But being a three-year-old baseball player didn’t
fly with my parents. If you had asked me at five what I wanted to be, I would
have said princess. That also didn’t fly with my parents. My dad said that
being a princess is an image that’s not worth pursuing. At five, I had
absolutely no idea what that meant but decided that I suddenly didn’t want to
be a princess any longer.

See a pattern?

If you had asked me at
ten what I wanted to be, I would have said the president of the United States.
As you can see, that was the time my parents were a deciding factor. I stopped
being asked what I wanted and started being told. Or was I ever really asked?

Then again, I never
objected. I could have been just as much to blame as they were.

Truth be told, I had
been so wrapped up in my life and the things that I thought were important, I
had lost touch with many things, myself included. I was if I didn’t know me.

The guidance consoler
at the school, Mrs. Wheeler, once asked me what I wanted in my life and I gave
her the standard answer that seemed scripted by my parents, college and then of
course, a career. But did
I
want that?

At the time, I thought
I wanted that. I also tend to believe that I could put my head in the sand
pretty far. I blame myself for that one. And then I would see people going to
parties and being teenagers and those thoughts of the perfectly planned life
seemed silly and I pulled my head out of the sand a little to check the tide.

The thoughts were still
there. I felt that if I didn’t do as planned that I was being disrespectful. When
your father is the Jeff Gray, disrespectful is something that is not allowed.

Part of the problem was
that soon those moments of wanting to be good
became
few and far between until I felt like all they saw was what they wanted. No one
saw me as a person.

Even
Eric.
He saw a girlfriend that by many standards was good to him. But
something was missing. After a while, I thought maybe that was how it was
supposed to be.

In the four years we
were dating, we never got past that. Deep down, it wasn’t enough for me and I
knew that. I liked to think that I’m an optimistic person but I will say that
I’ve been let down a lot too. Eric had let me down.

I thought about all
that for a good five minutes before I finally answered Dylan. “I want to make
mistakes. I want to get in trouble and feel alive. Like dancing in the rain and
being eighteen.”

“And what do
eighteen-year-olds do?” he asked, his eyes drawn to a man standing near a
picnic table.

“They get into trouble.
Lots of trouble―like starting a riot,”

Dylan ignored my riot
comment.

“This trouble you want
to get into,” he shifted in his seat to look at me—one hand was still on the
steering wheel and the other across the back of the seat, “will you regret it?”