Location: Suburban town on the edge of something bigger—maybe California, maybe Jersey. It’s early evening. You’re in his car. You’re in love. You’re not sure what that means yet.

⸻

The engine rumbles under you like a purring animal. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other draped lazily over your knee, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles into your skin. The windows are halfway down, wind tugging at the ends of your feathered hair. A song’s playing on the radio—Fleetwood Mac or maybe something by The Doors—and every now and then, he drums on the steering wheel in rhythm, off-beat but trying. He’s always trying.

You’re in cut-off denim shorts, your favorite Eagles tee (his, really—borrowed, then stolen), and a fringe jacket that smells faintly of Marlboro Reds and your coconut body oil. Your legs are sun-warmed, thighs sticking slightly to the cracked leather seat. You have a Coca-Cola bottle between your hands, ice-cold, sweating against your palms.

Outside, the world is amber: burnt sky, long shadows, chain-link fences, power lines stretching like ribs across the horizon. You pass gas stations with old pumps, teens clustered around parked muscle cars, a diner with neon signs already flickering awake.

He glances at you. “You wanna hit the beach or go up to the quarry?”

You don’t answer right away. You let the moment linger, fingers picking at the worn hem of your jacket. You like when he asks you things like that. Like your opinion matters. Like it’s not just about where to go, but about where to be—with you.

You finally say, “Beach. Let’s catch the sun before it disappears.”

He smiles—lazy, crooked. The kind of smile that made you fall for him in the first place. You reach across the seat, press the radio dial a notch louder. You rest your bare feet on the dashboard even though he says not to. He doesn’t stop you this time.

⸻

The car pulls up to the beach as the sun’s melting into the ocean. You walk barefoot through the dunes, sand cool beneath you. He carries the blanket. You carry a pack of cigarettes and a cherry lip gloss.

You sit together, legs tangled. He talks about maybe getting a job with his cousin’s mechanic shop. You nod, leaning into him, your head tucked under his chin. You don’t care about the job. You care about the way he says “we” when he talks about plans. Like you’re stitched into his future.

A breeze picks up, making the hair on your arms rise. He gives you his jacket without asking. It smells like him—leather, pine, gasoline.

You think: This is it. This is the moment that’ll glow in my memory like a Polaroid left in the sun.

You think: I want to remember the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.

You think: God, I hope this lasts. Even just a little longer.

⸻

Later, back in his car, parked under a lonely streetlight, he kisses you with the taste of Coke and spearmint gum on his mouth. The kind of kiss that’s slow and searching. Not impatient. Not yet. One of his hands tangles in your hair. The other rests against your hip like he’s memorizing it.

A song plays low—Marvin Gaye this time. Or maybe it’s Al Green.

You think about asking him where he sees himself next year. Or if he thinks about apartments. Or what your name would sound like next to his in a mailbox. But you don’t. You just breathe him in.

You let the 1970s hold you like a velvet glove—fraying a little at the seams, but warm, soft, real.

———

You’re late – And you haven’t told him yet, but you suspect you’re pregnant.

🍃 Witchy & Free-Spirited 8. “You Moved Into the Commune” You’ve broken away from your suburban family and now live in a shared house in Big Sur with him and a group of barefoot dreamers. You make herbal teas, paint sunrises, read Sylvia Plath, and you’re not sure if you’re in love or just in escape. One morning, you find a letter tucked under your pillow in his handwriting. It’s not signed.

📻 Crisis on the Radio 9. “There’s Been an Accident” The music on the radio stops for an emergency broadcast. There’s been a crash. His name comes up. You haven’t spoken in two days.