My dad’s car—a five-seater, two-door 2000 Mustang—became mine after graduation. Two days later, Nick and I were leaving town together. With our stuff in the trunk, we were making good on our plans.

“We’re doing this. I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said, even as I got us onto the highway.

“Believe it, Meat Head,” Nick joked, lying in the backseat.

“Why’d you have to kill the mood?” I muttered.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to try so hard anymore. We can share the thinking,” he said.

“I hate that name,” I said for the hundredth time.

He sat up and leaned his head from the back seat up to the front. “So, what did you tell your dad?”

The question stunned me so much I nearly swerved into another lane.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you convince him to let you take the car?”

“It’s my graduation present,” I said.

But that was a lie. A half-lie. My graduation gift came with strings attached—technically, it was a company car. Dad had gifted it so I could go to college in style, but I didn’t get into school. If I’d told my family the truth, they would’ve expected me to work at Dad’s dealership. No matter how well they might’ve taken the news, their disappointment would’ve been unbearable.

“Did you tell him?” Nick asked.

I hesitated to spoil the mood, but I answered, “He doesn’t need to know.”

“Where does he think you’re going? And with who?”

“Right now, he thinks I’m driving to the coast to see my mom before I head to some university in Florida,” I said.

“What do you think he’ll do when you never come back?” Nick asked, climbing from the back to the front seat like he was about to scold me with his look of disapproval.

I imagined my dad would eventually call the cops to report a missing person, maybe even start a search party. It was nice to imagine those things. But in reality, he wouldn’t care. Would he? My dad had three kids—two already in college. If I went missing, he may not have been happy, but he’d get over it. He had two good sons, better sons than me. Why would he care about a dud?

“Look, it’s not perfect, but it’ll work. It’s already working—unless you want to turn around,” I argued.

I didn’t want to fight, but it was hard to avoid it. The subject of my parents was just as painful as Nick’s, who were already six feet under.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of your dad,” Nick said, settling into the passenger seat.

“I’m not afraid of him. But I know if I tell him I like dick, I’ll lose him... if I haven’t already.”

"Maybe word it differently," Nick suggested.

I was the town’s best running back, but I never got our team far. I didn’t get into college. I couldn’t keep a girlfriend and, as if that wasn't bad enough, I decided to run off with a guy I used to bully. Honestly, how hadn't my dad disowned me already?

“We’re not coming back, so why not tell the truth?” Nick reasoned.

“If I could tell him, my coach, my friends, or anyone else, we wouldn’t have to leave. But I can’t. Alright?”

I turned up the music because things got too tense. It probably came off as passive aggression.

“When we get to Seattle, we have to try being ourselves,” Nick said.

“I’m trying now,” I answered, softer than before.

The longer we drove, the easier it got again. It wasn’t perfect, but we were running away together. It felt like a surreal dream. But when Nick held his hand across the car and I took it, I knew it was real.

I took a breath. We weren’t fighting—not really. It just went to show that no matter how much we liked each other, we still had our bumps in the road.

“So, I know I’m broke, but you never told me how you came into so much money we can afford this getaway,” I said.

“My parents, before they passed away, were saving up to send me to school. They even made a few investments in my name,” Nick explained.

“So you’re loaded?”

“We won’t have to worry about where our next meal is coming from.”

I chuckled. “It hasn’t even been a week, and you’re already taking care of me.”

“You can take care of me in other ways,” he said.

“Like?” I asked, glancing over. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Taking my shoes off,” he said.

He didn’t stop at the shoes. His socks came off just as fast, and he tossed them into the backseat.

“In the car?”

“This is our house now. We should get comfortable, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but my dad—” I started, until Nick finished my sentence with, “will never see us again.”

When did Nick become the bold one, constantly pushing my limits? Sometimes I had to believe he did things just to see if I’d react. Did he think I’d lash out? Was he testing whether I’d actually changed?

A year ago, I would’ve punched his teeth out for disrespecting the ride. But now, I was practically timid. I didn’t want any bumps. Seeing him get undressed—even just a little—was enough to get my mind racing with all the ways we could “disrespect” the ride. In the back seat, front seat, on the hood, on the side of the road. I guess I had traded my rage for something more horny, but just as dangerous.

It was difficult to swallow my hesitations, but I said, “Right... right. Your feet stink, though.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Nick laughed.

“I’m already used to it,” I added.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the weird one?” he said, reclining his seat as far back as it would go.

“We both are,” I argued.

“There’s nothing weird about you,” Nick said.

“Liking the way you smell isn’t weird?”

“I’d say that’s level 3 weird. I have all the level 10,” he answered with pride.

“You know what else I like about you?”

“What?”

“Your big hands,” I said.

“My hands?” he laughed, but I was somewhat serious.

“You could’ve been a basketball player with those things,” I said, laughing just as much at myself for saying something I could’ve kept secret.

“But my hands?”

“I told you—we’re both weird.”

“Okay, keep going,” Nick said, propping himself up to look at me.

“What?”

“Keep going. Tell me all the weird, freaky shit until I can’t take it.”

My boyfriend was such a cheesy, nerdy, hipster, lame-ass—and I loved every part of him. Only he could make me smile at the thought of spewing out all my turn-ons. That was the birth of our long-running driving game. It was stupid, but it was us.

“I think you should get a turn, since you’re a level 10,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“Please. I’m dying to know what kind of freaky shit you like about me.”

I waited, but he said nothing until I turned my head and our eyes met.

“Your pubes,” he said with a straight face.

“What?” I laughed, thinking it was a joke. But he added, “Your pubes. Your bush. I like it.”

I rolled my eyes.

“That’s not weird. You're gay. You like dick,” I reasoned.

“It’s not about your dick. Your pubes are perfect. They grow in a perfectly symmetrical shape. I know you don’t shave down there, but I could draw straight lines on those edges.”

He made his case, but it only made me laugh harder.

“Nick, I hate to break it to you, but that isn’t weird. It might turn me on if you keep going,” I said.

He finally stopped explaining. The look on his face told me he was at least a little embarrassed, possibly annoyed that I wasn't freaked out.

“Maybe you are a level 10 after all,” he said.