"Oh. I can help."
He hands me the paper, and I look at it for a moment, trying to decipher his chicken scratch. "You’re in the wrong field," I tell him.
"Why do you say that?"
"You have a doctor’s handwriting. Hard to read. It’s worse than Russian cursive."
"Really?" He laughs. "How do you know?"
"It’s LA. Of course I have Russian friends, duh."
"Okay, if you say so."
"I do."
We again fall into silence for the next minute or two, and it doesn’t feel awkward anymore. It feels more as if we’ve known each other all our lives. We can talk about anything—Russian cursive, the Milli Vanilli fiasco, what it’s like to grow up poor. I don’t think Jett’s ever talked to me about random stuff. Mostly, I just hear how great our future will be once he’s filthy rich and worldwide famous.
"I think we need to get off the highway soon," Cruz says. "Can you check what I noted there?" He gestures at the paper I’m still trying to decode.
"Looks like we’re taking the next exit." I don’t know how to pronounce it, so I just butcher the name of the street. "Münchner, I guess."
Cruz follows my instructions and takes the next right. The car flies down the ramp and then we’re on a street, driving past an assemblage of restaurants, hotels, and bars.
The lake isn’t far from here, and moments later, it shimmers on my right, all glossy and pearl-gray, with the raindrops turning the surface into something alive, something beautiful.
We follow the road for a little longer until we start leaving busy civilization behind. Now, it’s mostly parks and the occasional beach with small hotels nestled at the edge of the water. It’s pretty—lush green and cozy feeling. Nothing like the dry, windy winters of my childhood home back in SoCal’s desert.
Somehow, I’m glad I’m experiencing all this with him and not someone else.
"You want to stop somewhere for a bit?" Cruz asks.
"Sure."
"Cool. Let's see if we can find a good spot." He drives some more until we hit another park filled with trees and underbrush. We turn onto a narrow road and keep going until we end up in a small parking lot surrounded by spruce and pine. It’s remote and quiet, but we still have a nice view of the lake from the car.
"How about here?" Cruz looks at me, putting the gear into Neutral.
"It’s great."
We sit in relative silence for the next few minutes with music from an English rock station playing in the background.
Water clings to the windows like little crystals, casting dim, tiny shadows as the rain continues to fall. The engine purrs softly, a pleasant hum that matches the pulse in my neck.
"Why did you kiss—" Cruz starts.
"I’m sorry about last night," I talk over him.
"What?"
"I’m sorry I kissed you," I whisper. "I was drunk."
"Are you really sorry?"
"How do you mean?"
He turns his entire upper body toward me, his eyes dark and smoldering. "Are you really sorry?"
"Umm…"
